Her Younger Man (A Country Music Romance): a Renny and Rachel Romance

by MacLaren, Nancy

  “So you said.”

  “Next time you decide to buy a money pit give me a call and let me look it over before you do. I would have told you this was one plumbing disaster away from a total gut-job.”

  “I’ll do that. Dinners ready to go when you are.”

  “Great! I am starving.” He raised his arm and gave himself a sniff. “Whew! I need a shower first. I am not fit for man or beast. Or you.”

  “Be my guest, by all means.”

  I scrambled eggs, chopped onions, tomatoes, grated cheese while I heard him singing in the shower. Is this what they call domestic bliss? A hard-working, stinky, sexy man in the shower, a fire in the fireplace (fake, but whatever), cooking and sipping the wine which was better than expected? Why had I avoided this? With the right person, domesticity was right enjoyable. With the right person. There’s the rub, as Hamlet would say. To compromise or not to compromise, that is the question. I am not good at compromise. I am tenacious, inquisitive and uncompromising. It’s what made me a good reporter but a lousy partner. Still, I am older now, maybe I can learn some new tricks. Maybe if the reward were great enough I might even learn to make more than one dish. Maybe.

  He came in, jeans slung low, sinewy muscles on display. Um, no shirt. I guess it would be silly to put on a smelly, old shirt after taking a shower but still. I am just flesh and blood, Renny. I can only take so much of the flesh parade before wanting to touch. Playing with fire. Both of us.

  He was rubbing his hair with a towel and looked more at home in my house than I was after two years of living here. I got the feeling Renny was at home wherever he went. I got the feeling Renny was at home with Renny. It was probably the trait I envied the most. Having battled my weight my entire life I never felt finished with body. I was always a little outside myself, critiquing my newest facial lines, cellulite or bulges. More than anything I wanted to give up and accept myself as I was. I tried and I had almost achieved not caring anymore when this guy walked into my life. Now I cared way too much again.

  He sat down, hair dripping rivulets down the sparse dark hair of his chest. Um, yeah, I wasn’t going to be able to eat with that going on. “Do you want to borrow a T-shirt? I’m sure I’ve got one that would sorta fit.”

  “This hot bod too much for you, huh?” Oh, he knows the effect he was having on me. Beast!

  “No. I just thought you’d get cold or feel…” He was grinning his lop-sided, shit-eatin’ grin. “Forget it,” I said, as I passed him the potatoes.

  He was either very hungry or I’m a better cook than I thought because he had seconds and thirds of everything. He washed it down with a few glasses of wine and we both got a little tipsy. At least, I got a little tipsy. He’s a big man and I had no idea what his alcohol tolerance was but we had a great time. There seemed to be no end of things to talk about. We broke all the rules and discussed religion, politics as well as music, films, art and plumbing. I had no idea where this Renny Taylor had come from but he was well-read and opinionated. I hadn’t had so much fun talking to another person since I had left the war zone. And apparently Renny was enjoying himself as well.

  It was fun to sit back and watch him gesticulate with those amazing hands as he made impassioned arguments for the things he held dear. It was fun to find out what those were too. We were on opposite sides of a lot of issues; abortion, religion, gun control, but he always had facts to back his stances and that was refreshing. I absolutely love to argue with a worthy opponent. He didn’t change my mind about the issues but I changed a little more of my mind about him. I began to wonder how any woman had ever let him go. What was his ex-wife like that this man was not enough for her? I didn’t want to ruin Ren’s mood by bringing her up though. Maybe I’d google a little deeper and try to find out about her on my own.

  I found myself falling under a spell. A spell I’d always associated with young girls and Jane Austen. I knew he couldn’t be perfect. Hell, even Mr. Darcy wasn’t perfect, but for me, right now, he was as perfect a man as I had ever met. If this is a dream, I thought, I hope I’m in a coma.

  Then he made a mistake. He asked about Maryam and the war again. I didn’t want to talk about her, or the war, or anything I had seen or witnessed.

  “Why are you so interested in her?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? I have a niece now and I have cousins just about her age. I imagine those innocent, sweet girls being forced into… it makes me sick.”

  “It should make everyone sick. There should be protests in the streets of every civilized city in the world.”

  “Then why aren’t there?”

  “Apathy? You Tube? Twitter? People don’t like complicated problems anymore.”

  “That’s not fair Rachel. I think it’s because people don’t know about it. They don’t get these kind of stories anymore. Hell, they even pulled you out.”

  “I pulled myself out. I quit the Times, not the other way around.”

  “Why would you do that? People need to know what’s going on, especially if it’s going on in our name with our money.”

  “I thought if I wrote a book, maybe then people would identify with one girl and then it would be all girls.”

  “Exactly. It’s why you should keep writing it.”

  I was shaking and close to tears. Didn’t he see how much this was costing me? Just talking about it, much less immersing myself daily to write it? Maybe he wasn’t Mr. Perfect after all.

  Then he made a worse mistake. He moved closer and touched my hair, stroking or smoothing it, whatever. Did he think I was a horse or something? Stroke my mane and I’ll settle down.

  “C’mon, baby girl, let it out, let it go. I’m here, I can take it.”

  Right. Like I’m going to break down in front of this marvelous, amazingly gentle man. Like I’m going to …

  And then I was sobbing into his bare chest, losing it completely. He wrapped his arms around me and just held on until the tidal wave was finished. Everything I had been holding in for the last two years rushed out. I could hardly breathe through the constriction in my throat. I feared, as I always had, that once I began I would never be able to stop. But I did. I could. Slowly the knots released and the tears thinned to a manageable stream.

  When I pulled away he handed me the towel he’d been wearing when he first came in. I wiped his chest of my tears and then my incredibly runny nose and gave it back.

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s your towel.”

  “Oh, right. Not for that, for …”

  “I ain’t good for much darling,’ but I am good with pain. Other peoples, that is. You feeling better?”

  I nodded and then he made the biggest mistake of all, he kissed me.

  What the fuck? This wasn’t some silly romantic comedy where the heroine breaks down and is healed by a magical kiss. I felt betrayed and excited all at the same time.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “I kissed you.”

  “I know that. Why?”

  “I wanted to?”

  “You wanted to kiss this snotty, swollen, red-eyed, extremely vulnerable woman.”

  “Um, yes?”

  I stood up, pointing to the door. “You need to leave, now.”

  “It was that bad?”

  “I’m not joking Renny, and I’m not one of your bimbos you can seduce with your ‘aw shucks’ charm and your boyish good looks. You played me, just like you play your guitar”.

  “Where the hell is this coming from? I thought we were making a connection. One I haven’t felt in a long, long time. I’m sorry if I offended you by kissing you but, hell, lady, you gave as good as you got.”

  “I was surprised. Kissing back is an instinct, it meant nothing. You could have been my, my brother.”

  “You always slip your bro a little tongue?”

  Now he was up and towering over me. You can’t intimidate me Renny Taylor, with your hugeness and your beautiful face and smooth, easy ways.

  “Listen Renny, I know
you are used to getting your way with women, you’re used to women flinging themselves and their underwear at you, but I am not some groupie. So, thanks for the plumbing. Send me a bill.”

  I turned to go back into the well-lit kitchen but instead of leaving he followed me, matching anger with sarcasm.

  “So that’s what’s twisting your knickers. Yeah, I get a few panties thrown my way. What can I say, it’s a hazard of the job.”

  Insufferable twit!

  “I feel sorry for you really. What a burden to bear, all those women flinging their Victoria’s Secrets at you.”

  “You know, I don’t think you really mean that.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  “So what? Women like to fling their underwear at me. You show me a full-blooded man who doesn’t enjoy a little panty flinging. Hell, baby girl, I’m living the dream.”

  “Don’t call me baby girl.”

  “You should try it baby girl, you might like it.”

  “I said, don’t call me baby girl! I am not a baby nor am I a girl. I am a woman and a woman doesn’t throw her underwear at some second-rate rock star.”

  “Second-rate? Oh, I get it, it must be hard being such a serious journalist and all. You know what I think you need?”

  “Not you.”

  “I think you need to have someone throw their undies at you. I bet you’d love it.”

  “I would not and stop unbuttoning those jeans Renny Taylor. Stop. Don’t you dare drop those. Oh my God!”

  He stood directly in front of me with not a stitch of clothing on that… oh my frickin’ God… that body.

  “Well, shit, I ain’t got no undies to throw,” he said, moving his hips back and forth, waggling in the wind.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh, scream or run from the room.

  Suddenly he was grabbing me. Suddenly, I was not resisting. In any way. I started shedding clothes and damning the consequences. For a split second I hesitated. I realized that although he had showered, I hadn’t. Ah well, there was no stopping this hurricane now.

  Feelings, sensations, long, long buried, boiled to the surface as we kissed and touched. All I wanted was more and everything. It was like I’d been in the desert for a very long time and his body was my oasis.

  We never made it out of the kitchen. We man –and woman –handled the shit out of each other. Only once did the thought of my chubby thighs and gravity-challenged breasts cross my mind. He seemed way too busy to be worried about cellulite. Because he was, oh my God, was he biting me? Not to be outdone, I proceeded to take a small nibble out of his neck. He yelped, muttered something about a “she-devil” and lowered me to the floor where he proceeded to have his way with me, and I with him.

  We fit together like last two pieces of a very complicated puzzle.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Damn that was fun,” he yelled as he rolled off of me and slapped the floor. “I haven’t had that much fun in way too long. “

  I would have told him it was fun for me too if I could have talked. I was too busy navigating the aftershocks of making love to Renny Taylor. No, wrong word, this wasn’t love, this was sex. Pure, unadulterated, criminally enjoyable sex.

  I started giggling. Like an idiot. Laughing and laughing. I had been so tightly coiled that Renny had unraveled me completely. He laughed along but I wasn’t sure if he was laughing with me or at me. I didn’t care. Joy is fleeting, grab it when you can, I say.

  He rolled on his side to look at me –or perhaps to make sure I hadn’t gone completely around the bend. “Ice cream?” he asked hopefully.

  “I need a shower first,” I answered, “but help yourself. It’s only vanilla, sorry.”

  “A shower. Excellent idea,” he said, pulling me to my feet and dragging me to the bathroom. No, this wasn’t what I meant. I needed a shower by myself. I was beyond stinky and I felt spasms of shyness. I did not want him seeing me in the glaring light of the bathroom.

  I needn’t have worried. He waited until I was in the shower before he came in with several lit candles which he set on the counter before turning off the overhead lights. Ah, okay, now let’s see what showering with this man meant.

  It meant water. A little soap and a lot of other. He slipped in behind me and wrapped his tallness around me. Even with my Keira Knightly weight his arms wrapped around me easily making me feel small and vulnerable. Of course, I was in a shower, stark naked, with a man 20 years younger than me, I’m not sure I could get more vulnerable.

  I could. He took the loofah from my hand and made a cursory sweep across my back before tossing it to the floor and pouring the body wash in his hands. He started at my neck and used his hands to massage the soap into my body as I leaned against him. He took his time, lingering over my breasts and belly before teasing up my thighs. There he took his time as well, working up more than one kind of lather.

  He proved to know how to play a woman’s body. Those long, slender, agile, silky fingers were not a disappointment. Oh, what a man can do with four fingers and a thumb! They should teach that shit in school. More useful than Algebra.

  My body responded in ways I had never experienced, even just moments before in the kitchen. Where that had been rough and tumble, this was painfully gentle. I was melting, cascading through the pouring water, diving into pure bliss. I came with a cry and before I could catch my breath he had turned me around and was hoisting me up against the shower wall. I wrapped my legs around him as he entered me, all gentleness forgotten.

  It was a good thing we were drenching in water because I think spontaneous combustion was a real possibility. I slipped a little but his hands cradled my butt and kept me tight against him. I shuddered with the aftershocks of my own orgasm and so I was taken by surprise when he stopped moving, groaned and fell against me. So this is what all that shower sex hype was about? How had I made it this far without experiencing this? Who cares, it would never have been this, and this with this man, was worth waiting for.

  We parted reluctantly, kissing and serious. I expected another exclamation of “that was fun” from him but he remained deeply quiet. Maybe he was finally worn out. I was ready for some serious sleep myself.

  Ice cream forgotten we fell into my bed, slightly damp but satisfied and blissful. I have never slept better.

  This man. Where had he come from?

  ___________________________________________________________________________________

  He was up and moving fast before I was fully awake. He was grabbing clothes, cursing and talking on the phone all at once, as I opened my eyes to the bright sunshine.

  “I’m on my way. Hell, you guys can handle one interview without me. Ok, ok, untwist your knickers Reade. I’ll be there in a few.”

  I sat up, wiping sleep from my eyes, completely forgetting my nakedness. “Do you need me to drive you to the hotel?”

  “Thanks, called a cab.”

  I heard a honk outside. “There they are.” He had his jeans on and his shirt pulled on but unbuttoned, his hair was newly wet so he must have showered already. I must have been dead to the world not to have woken. I glanced at the clock; 1:30. P.M.? Wow.

  He started out the door before I could say anything, like, “wait” or “Thanks” or “is this it?” He rushed back in, grabbing something from the floor, leaned into me, gave me a quick kiss and … gone. The front door slammed and I heard the cab door open, close and the whoosh of the cab taking him away from me.

  Now what?

  I lay back in bed and that’s when it hit me that he had seen me in the light of day. Shit! I needed ice cream. Now.

  I gathered myself, forgo the robe and walked into the kitchen. My clothes were still all over the kitchen floor. I decided to leave them there if, later in the day, I needed to convince myself it had all happened I could point to the evidence.

  I dished out a huge bowl of vanilla ice cream, threw on some loose chocolate chips and sat down at the kitchen table.

  I called the office and tol
d them I was writing at home today. There was a twinge of attitude and a smoot of curiosity but Sam just reminded me that my deadline was noon the next day and let me go.

  Noon tomorrow. I had to make sense of the last 48 hours by noon tomorrow. Maybe I should have studied magic instead of journalism.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I finished my piece on the Taylor Brothers, trying to be objective. It wasn’t easy now that I had actually gotten up front and personal with one of them. It also didn’t help that it appeared to be a ‘slam-bam-thank you-ma’am’. I hadn’t heard from Renny since he rushed out yesterday morning. I don’t know what I was expecting, flowers? Love notes? What an idiot, I am. I was just another port in the storm. Count your blessings, Rachel, you had some world class sex with no strings attached. Every girl’s dream.

  Then why did parts of my piece sound so bitter? Why did I emphasize the rolling stone nature of the Taylor Brothers, painting them like some aging rock stars intent on sucking all the marrow out of their new life? And what was wrong with that, aside from Reade being a married man and new father? Who were they hurting anyway? Not this gal. No way. Uh-uh. Thank goodness I have a tough skin. Love ‘em and leave ‘em Rachel, that’s what they call me.

  God, I’m so full of shit.

  Sam loved the piece and chose a candid shot of the boys playing by the bus for the cover. I told Sam I was sick with a cold so I could stay home the rest of the week and mope. I couldn’t face the office, not feeling like I did – one minute giddy and the next defeated.

  By Thursday I was curled up, alone and in my best sweats and ripped T-shirt trying to concentrate on a new movie screener I was supposed to write a review on. I was restless and kept having to go the bathroom every 15 minutes. I was pounding down cranberry juice and water in equal doses in an attempt not to make a run for the emergency room. The frequent trips and the aching between my legs kept reminding me of Sunday night. It kept reminding me that I had been used and abandoned. Again.

  When would I learn? I was always picking the most inappropriate people to fall in love with. My first husband had turned out to be gay and my second, well, let’s just say his demons were way bigger than mere love could cure. The fact that I miscarried right after he left wasn’t his fault and everyone told me it was a blessing in disguise. How could I travel all over the world if I’d had a child to raise? That’s why my letter from the Pulitzer committee was framed and hanging above my toilet, to remind me of what a shitty consolation prize it was.