Rachel, Out of Office

by Christina Hovland

  Given the look she gave him, that was not the answer she wanted.

  “Or do it your way,” he said. “That works, too.”

  “I need to have enough clients to pay for help, but to do that I need to have more time to build up my client list. I already know I prefer fewer high-paying clientele than lots of smaller ones.”

  He knew, without a doubt that any of the Franks would invest in her company if she asked. If she didn’t want him involved because of their extracurricular activities, the others would toss in for it.

  She finished up the email, closed the laptop, and slipped it into the padded case before stuffing it under the seat.

  “Okay, let’s go.” She pushed her door open before he could get around the front of the vehicle to open it for her.

  He linked his hand with hers as they headed toward the building. The barn.

  Light spilled from the open double barn doors and as they got closer, a loud stream of country music coming from inside filtered out into the mountain air.

  Dave had said this was the place in town to hit up on a Friday night. He knew, from his chats with Molly, that Rachel and her friends tended to hit up trend-setting martini bars. Not old barns in the middle of nowhere.

  He’d have a talk with Dave later about his suggestions on date locations.

  Although he was pretty sure there was not a martini bar anywhere in the Twin Lakes region.

  “You’ve never been here before?” she asked as, tethered together, they weaved through the parked trucks, various off-road vehicles, and a few luxury SUVs that seemed oddly out of place.

  “Nope. Dave’s the social guy. I usually hang out at the house, hike, hit the lake, that type of thing.” They emerged from the parked cars and…the barn had a bouncer.

  That was as unexpected as a pair of overalls at The Cruise Room.

  A big, muscled guy manned the door. The size of this guy rivaled the bouncers at Brek’s Bar in Denver when Dimefront stopped by.

  “Name?” he asked, swiping across the screen of an electronic tablet that seemed fancier than the ones Gavin had bought the boys for Christmas.

  “Frank, Travis.”

  A slow smile spread over the bouncer guy’s face. “Dave’s brother.”

  Travis nodded, pulling out his wallet to handle the cover charge.

  “No charge for Dave’s brother.” Bouncer Guy held out two gold, plastic wristbands with VIP etched in black letters.

  Rachel caught Travis’s gaze, her eyebrows raised.

  He was certain they were thinking the same thing—a barn has VIP wristbands?

  Travis took the bands, helping Rachel with hers before attaching his own. The bouncer guy unhooked the thick rope blocking the entrance and jerked his chin, indicating they should pass through.

  Rachel gripped his arm and rolled up on her toes to whisper in his ear, “I’ve never been a VIP in a barn before.”

  Her breath against his earlobe made his whole body heat.

  “That makes two of us.” He turned his head so his face was right next to hers, and he kissed her. Quick. The kind of kiss two people shared when they were comfortable with each other. The kind that wasn’t any kind of promise because it didn’t need to be; it was simply who they were.

  That realization had him tripping over his feet a little.

  Rachel held on to his arm as though if she released him, he’d disappear into the crowd.

  There was quite the crowd inside, a wall-to-wall melding of the locals and those who owned seasonal homes. Cowboy hats abounded, paired with worn jeans, right alongside not-worn-in designer jeans and one-hundred-dollar haircuts.

  Travis liked it.

  What the place lacked on the weathered outside, it made up for on the inside. First, because the inside had new lumber for walls. That squelched his previous concern the place might cave. Even the sawdust on the floor seemed to be more for show than for utility, because the sawdust was way too clean to have been there before that evening.

  Rachel was pulling him toward a table set up along the wall filled with a buffet of food, but that’s not where she stopped. Behind that table was another with mason jars filled with what appeared to be moonshine and a keg of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

  At the end of the table was a tabletop sign announcing the beverages were for the VIPs.

  “I’ve never had moonshine before,” she said with a sly grin.

  He squeezed her arm. “Be careful with that stuff—it’ll light you up.”

  “That sounds fun.”

  “Depends on who’s holding your hair tomorrow.”

  “You’d hold my hair?”

  “Did I bring you to a fancy barn or what?”

  “I guess you’d hold my hair, then. But good news”—she chucked him on the shoulder—“you don’t have to, because I have an iron stomach.”

  This he did not know about her.

  She nodded along with her assertion.

  “Then I suppose you should try the moonshine,” he said.

  The attendant offered a tiny, shot-size mason jar filled with clear liquid to Travis.

  He took it and passed it along to Rachel. “Enjoy.”

  “You’re not having any?” she asked, doing a little sniff test that made the corners of her eyes water.

  He shrugged. Given that he’d driven her there, he was definitely not having any. Plus: “My stomach is not of the iron variety, and I’d prefer not to be throwing up tomorrow.”

  “I would also prefer you not throw up tomorrow.” She lifted a shoulder, and her sweater slipped down a notch, exposing a lace bra strap. “The Frank stomach is notoriously weak. Which is a wonder, given your excellent breakfast choices.” She layered on the sarcasm nice and thick.

  “Did you just call me weak?” He nudged her.

  “It’s the only part of you that’s weak.” She smiled and glanced down to his fly. “Everything else seems top-notch.”

  That top-notch part of him she stared at stirred under her scrutiny.

  “Glad you approve.” He stepped aside so another woman with a VIP bracelet could get to the table.

  Rachel tossed back the shot like it was apple juice, but then the fire of the moonshine must’ve punched her in the gut, because her eyes bugged and she gripped his shoulder.

  He didn’t like that she learned the burn of moonshine the hard way—she should’ve given it a little sip first—but he liked that she leaned against him for support and held on when she needed it. He practically felt the warmth of the distilled liquor in his own veins. Except his hit wasn’t near as bad as hers must’ve been.

  “Smooth,” she managed to finally say on a cough.

  “Maybe I should try some,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Take it from me—don’t do it.”

  That wasn’t what he’d meant, though. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to her lips. She sighed and parted her lips, and he went for a taste. Rachel, and fire, and spirit.

  He broke the kiss. “Tastes fine to me.”

  “Dance with me?” she asked, not moving.

  “Always.” He touched the indent of her mouth with the pad of his index finger.

  It was either that or take her to the car, put down the seats in the back, and find a secluded spot to devour each other.

  “That’s not entirely true,” she said. Suddenly, it was as though everything but his face held her interest. She didn’t meet his gaze. “The always thing.”

  “Then what’s the truth?” he asked. That moonshine sounded like it had been a good idea, given the tone of her words.

  “There’s what I thought was the truth and what I realize now is the truth,” she said.

  He could relate to that.

  They weren’t dancing, yet. They weren’t even touching. But there was only a wink of space s
eparating their bodies. The space seemed to stretch for miles in the silence as Rachel started and stopped, started and stopped.

  “Forget about it.” She gave a halfhearted wave of her hand.

  Her hand brushed against his chest. He reached for it and held it there.

  “I would’ve danced with you before this trip, Rach.” He lifted her hand and kissed the end of each and every one of her fingertips.

  “I wouldn’t have danced with you.” Her words were quick. “But I will now. And I’m not really making much sense, so we should just get to it.” She paused for half a beat. “The dancing thing.”

  “What you’re trying to say is you didn’t always like me?”

  She nodded. Gulped. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Well, the feeling was mutual.” He pulled her to the dance floor. A slow country ballad came through the speakers. He wrapped her in his arms, keeping enough space so he could study her face as she responded. “I know what my problem was. Why didn’t you like me, though?”

  “I know better than to listen to what other people say. But Gavin had always talked about you like you were shallow.”

  That sounded about right.

  “I took his word for it.” She looked up at him from under her lashes. “I shouldn’t have.”

  He pulled her closer, because he could. “Tell me about what he said.”

  “Which do you want to hear?” she asked, finally meeting his stare.

  He wanted to hear anything Rachel was willing to tell him, so he could go about fixing it. Showing her who he really was.

  She cleared her throat, swaying with the music. With him.

  “You and Gavin don’t get along,” she stated as though it were fact.

  They didn’t get along well, this was true. “That’s right. Most of the time.”

  She was tracing little ovals along his arms—the bare skin at the edges of his short sleeves. “Why?”

  “Different philosophies, I suspect.” Although, in recent years, things had been better between them. They’d kept their relationship to business, and the business was doing well, so there wasn’t much to argue about. Travis didn’t like Gavin’s complete commitment to the company. He wished Gavin would throw that commitment toward his kids. But he’d stayed out of it.

  “Why don’t you think we get along?” he asked.

  “Gavin always said little things about you in passing.” Rachel lifted her shoulder, just the tiniest of inches.

  He stilled for half a second. “What kind of things?”

  “Like that you were always with a different woman.” She studied the floor, then the wall.

  “That’s not entirely untrue,” he admitted with a chuckle.

  “And you didn’t treat them well,” she continued.

  Now, that? That was entirely a lie.

  “I never treated any of the women I was with poorly. We each got what we wanted from those…”

  What was the best word for what those definitely-not relationships had been?

  “Sexual liaisons?” she offered.

  His cheeks burned. She was right; that’s what they’d been. All they’d been.

  He nodded. A lump suddenly stuck in his throat.

  “I’ve been a little worried that this thing between us might be you somehow sticking it to Gavin,” she said, as though the thought had weighed heavy.

  “Gavin has nothing to do with what we’re doing.” He pulled her closer. “Gavin doesn’t get to be in this thing with us, no matter where it goes.”

  She nodded.

  “He also said you weren’t dedicated at work,” she continued.

  That was also true. “I supposed I’ve spent a good deal of time figuring out my shit.”

  “What kind of shit?” They weren’t so much dancing as they were clinging to each other in a sea of people.

  “What I want to do. I want to fly. Wasn’t sure about the family business, but you can imagine how Mama reacts when I bring that up. Gavin takes her side. Things get complicated real fast.”

  “The thing is…” She paused, nibbling her bottom lip. “I’m not sure Gavin’s opinion is the real reason why I didn’t care for you. I don’t think I ever really believed him about any of it, if I’m being honest.”

  “Then what was the real reason?”

  “I knew if I opened myself up to liking you, I’d go all in on it.” She didn’t seem to be able to meet his gaze. “That scared me. Gavin and I were trying at that point. Trying to make it work so Kellan and Brady would have stability. We were trying, and you were…distracting.”

  “So it was easier to stay away.” The music changed to another slow ballad. “You were distracting, too,” he said against her hair. “And I guess I didn’t really do much to prove to you I wasn’t a total dick.”

  “Just a tad bit of a dick?” she asked with a little nose scrunch.

  “I am a Frank.” He pressed a brief kiss to her forehead. “Some of it is genetic.”

  “I don’t believe that.” She shook her head vehemently.

  “Why?”

  “Because my boys are Franks, and I don’t believe they need to be jerks.”

  “Ahh…”

  They didn’t speak for the rest of the song, but their bodies moved like they were made for each other. Made to move together.

  “What are we doing, Travis?” she asked quietly, almost like she didn’t mean for him to hear the question.

  “Dancing,” he murmured against her hair.

  “I mean…”

  He knew what she meant. They were new; this was precarious. Which was why he said, “Sometimes you can just go with it and not worry about every little thing. Makes life more fun.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “This was from a single mom coworker when I was in the middle of a horrible divorce. I had to say it to myself A LOT! ‘Don’t insult the gene pool!’” — Anonymous, Colorado, USA

  Rachel

  Rachel pressed herself against Travis’s body. She adored the feeling of his strength as she nestled against him. The way her curves seemed to fit. How her body didn’t feel like something she should change or improve upon when they were together. Instead, her curves were something he enjoyed. Therefore, she enjoyed them, too.

  Neither of them was even pretending to sway to the music at this point. Standing together, bodies molded to each other, was perfect.

  She shuddered a breath. This brand of perfect had the power to ruin everything.

  “I’m not ready to tell everyone about us,” she said, letting the words out before she had time to think and then overthink them.

  “Okay.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “We don’t have to do that right now.”

  “I don’t…I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.” She worried at the lipstick on her bottom lip. “What would we even say?”

  “That things are good between us.” He traced her neck with his thumb, the path warming. He had a way of touching her that made her muscles release years of tension. The man’s hands were magic.

  The tension building in this conversation was starting to make her whole body tighten up. He caught it. He remedied it.

  This was life with Travis.

  “We’d say that this is going wherever we want to take it,” he continued with that mesmerizing quality of his voice. “We don’t want it to end.”

  “That makes it sound so simple,” she said, whispering into the cocoon they’d built around each other.

  The muscles in her back continued to release with his touch.

  “We can take the next step,” he said. “Just for us. The rest will fall into place when the time is right.”

  “We’re doing this.” She couldn’t help it, she pulled herself up on her toes, so her nose brushed against his.

  He smiled. �
��We’re doing this.”

  “Are we going to give each other keys and stuff?” she asked.

  She vaguely knew where his apartment was downtown, but she’d never been there. The boys had been, though. Their comments about the space all revolved around his video game setup. It was, apparently, amazing.

  “My apartment has a doorman. You’re already on the list of people with clearance to be let in whenever you want,” he said against her hair.

  Her eyes went wide. She was on the doorman list? Wait…he had a freaking doorman?

  “Since when,” she asked, “am I on the list?”

  “Since you became part of the family.”

  “Oh.” She glanced at his palm, still practicing magic in the muscles at her shoulder.

  “It’s not a big deal,” he said, but it sounded like it was actually a pretty big deal to him.

  “Even after the divorce?” she asked carefully, unsure if she wanted to know the answer.

  “You’re still part of the family.” His sincerity pierced through the sadness that came whenever she thought about those times. “Divorce doesn’t change that.”

  The divorce wasn’t contentious, but it was still a divorce. She still mourned what her boys had lost when their parents split. Knowing they’d never remember a time when Mom and Dad were together as a couple, not just a parental unit.

  “Seriously?” she asked, not fully believing him.

  He nodded.

  “A doorman is so fancy. I have only a keypad,” she said, making the silly face that usually worked to make the boys laugh.

  Travis didn’t laugh. But his lips twitched, so she’d call it a win.

  “I usually just use the garage opener,” she said, as they dance-moved closer to the edge of the dance floor. “But the keypad works on the front and back doors. It’s, uh, four-zero-six-nine.”

  “Four, zero, six, nine,” he repeated.

  She’d given him the code before—the night he brought her margaritas and she’d crashed on the sofa. This time, though, when she gave him the numbers, it felt like more.

  They were, somehow, a promise she was making.

  “I can write it down for you,” she said. “Or the boys know. They’re sworn to secrecy, though, so they probably won’t say anything, even if you ask.”