Unraveled- 8 Delicious Tale of Passion

by Fawkes, Sara

  I have a chance to look up, he thrusts a folded piece of paper in front of my line of vision.

  “This is a map of the ranch and the schedule of activities, entertainment and meals for the

  weekend. You’re welcome to take part in as much or as little as you like.”

  The paper is warm from resting in his back pocket. Hot-off-the-ass. I’m tempted to sniff it.

  Seriously. The man brings out the basest of instincts in me. It’s embarrassing.

  “Great,” I say, carefully unfolding the paper and bringing it closer to my face to read. I inhale

  deeply. It’s a schedule with times and descriptions typed out neatly, but I don’t read any of it because

  my eyes slide closed as I continue to breathe in. Deeply.

  “I’ll leave you alone to rest and freshen up before supper.”

  No, don’t leave!

  My eyes fly open.

  Oh God. Please tell me that thought stayed in my head and was not spoken out loud. Please, please,

  please.

  His expression reassures me I only shouted in my head. Phew! I smile brightly, hoping to hide my

  ridiculous lust-logged thoughts.

  “Let me know if there’s anything I can get you. Anything.”

  “Thanks.” My head bobs up and down while the chant , keep your eyes on his face, keep your eyes

  on his face, repeats between my ears. “I’m good.” My gaze flicks low, for just a second—I have no

  self-control—and I notice that the bulge behind his fly appears more prominent.

  “Yes,” he says. “I imagine you are.”

  Chapter Two

  Tap, tap, tap.

  I roll over and rub my eyes.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Blinking, I experience a moment of utter confusion, where I not only feel a sense of disorientation

  of where am I? But of when am I ? I glance at the clock radio on the bedside table. Seven-thirty. Is that seven-thirty in the morning or seven thirty in the evening? I have no idea.

  Then everything comes back to me in a jumble. Finishing up the job at Ascot Exploration. Todd

  recommending the Lazy L as a place to relax for a few days. The ranch. The cabin. Lying down for a

  quick nap.

  The cowboy.

  What was his name again? Oh yes. Wade. Wade Messing.

  Did we kiss or was that just in my dream?

  I thread my fingers through my sleep-mussed hair, trying to remember.

  Dream. Yes, it was definitely a dream.

  Too bad.

  I lean against the headboard of the log bed, trying to recapture the lovely dream I’d been having

  where the cowboy in question was giving me a personal tour of the Big House, as indicated on the

  map. He pulled me into some hidden alcove that had trees and a pond—in only the way a house in a

  dream can—and kissed me while urging my hand downward to give me a personal tour of the front of

  his jeans.

  Oh yes. Lovely.

  Pound, pound, pound.

  I open my eyes and frown. What the hell is that? Rolling off the bed, I make my way, a little

  unsteadily, through the bedroom and sitting room to the front door of the cabin. I open the door to find

  the very cowboy of my dreams standing outside holding one of those covered room service trays

  “You missed supper.” He holds up the tray. “I thought you might be hungry.”

  At the smell of whatever delectable food is beneath the silver cover, my stomach rumbles eagerly

  in reply.

  He carries the tray on into the room and sets it on the table. I close the door behind him, following

  him back to the table, licking my lips at both the smell of the food and the sight of the man.

  He turns and his eyes go wide. Down his gaze goes, lingering somewhere below my waist, then

  back up. While his assessment of me is thorough—yep, there he goes, dipping back down again—I’m

  having a hard time reading his reaction. Does he like what he sees? I can’t tell. His face is as stony as

  the Rocky Mountains to the west.

  Hmm.

  I glance down and notice my feet are bare. So are my calves...as are my knees and, well, pretty

  much everything up to my lacy thong that is barely covered by the hem of my shirt.

  “Shit!” I tug down on my shirt but in my attempt to cover the fact I’m not wearing any pants, all I

  do is expose the fact that I’m not wearing any bra either.

  “I’ll leave you to your meal,” he says and though he doesn’t smile, there’s laughter in his voice.

  When he turns to leave, I blurt, “Don’t go!” Seriously, I think a part of my brain is still in dream

  mode and I’m still in that alcove, kissing. “What I mean is, I’d love to have some company while I

  eat, if you’re not too busy.”

  He glances at his watch and then back at me. “If you’d like.” Keeping his eyes on my face, like a

  true gentleman, he continues, “I’ve got some time before the evening activities start.”

  “Great.” I wave in a downward direction, indicating my general state of undress. “I’ll just go put

  some clothes on.” I hurry to the bedroom and shut the door. The problem isn’t so much that I’m

  uncomfortable being caught in the buff, it’s that I’m still so disorientated, I can’t tell what’s real from

  what’s not and I’m afraid I’ll do something I’ll regret. Like jump the cowboy while I’m wearing

  exactly one and a half pieces of clothing, thinking we were just kissing...which we weren’t.

  Stumbling to the bathroom, I check out my reflection. I’ve got that just-got-laid look. Tussled hair,

  flushed cheeks, t-shirt askew. My state of nipple arousal is obvious beneath the thin material of my

  shirt and of course I’m not wearing any pants.

  “Jesus Tessa,” I mutter to my reflection before splashing cold water on my face.

  I’m thinking if the cowboy is still outside when I come out, after seeing me in such a sorry state,

  maybe that means he’s interested. Maybe it means Horny Tessa will get a little cowboy action this

  weekend. Of course, there is the possibility the man will still be there when I come out simply because

  he’s polite and I’m his guest.

  He is a cowboy, after all.

  I quickly dress, run a brush through my hair and tie it back into a ponytail before pausing behind

  the closed bedroom door. Moment of truth. I slowly open the door and peek around it to see whether

  I’ve scared him off or not. My heart does a fancy twirl behind my breastbone. There’s a big man

  seated at the table. He isn’t sitting with his back to me, he’s sitting so that he’s facing the bedroom

  door, watching. Waiting. His long legs stick out in a relaxed pose and he’s removed his hat so that I

  can see him without the shadow of the brim. His face is wide with high cheekbones and a bold

  forehead. His lips are full and expressive but it’s not difficult to imagine them forming a stern line

  when provoked. His eyes are deep set and hazel or brown, it’s hard to say from this distance, and his

  hair—this is the first time I’ve seen it—is dirty blond and wavy.

  I straighten my shirt and walk across the room, feeling more exposed under his direct scrutiny than

  I did when I was barely clothed.

  “That’s better,” I say.

  “I don’t know,” he replies in his smooth, deep voice. “I thought you looked just fine before.”

  His statement stops me in my tracks. I’m not still dreaming, am I? Did he really just say what I

  think he said? Because if he did, it sounded suspiciously like a come on.

  “Sorry,” he says, though he
sounds anything but sorry. “That was ungentlemanly.”

  “Yes it was.” I sit down. “But, I don’t mind.” The man has me blushing like the school girl I

  haven’t been in years. It’s not like I’m even close to virginity, we haven’t been buddies in ages. But

  the man makes me feel shy and chaste—like virginity and I still have our arms firmly linked together.

  I love it.

  “I hope you don’t mind, I opened one of the bottles of wine.”

  “No. Not at all.” I point to the single wine glass. “But please join me. I hate to drink alone.”

  He nods and finds another wine glass, pouring for both of us before uncovering the tray of food.

  The plate is mounded with steaming barbeque ribs, beans and coleslaw, enough to feed two or three of

  me.

  “Wow.” The sweet, tangy scent of barbequed meat makes my mouth water and I dive in without

  preamble. In between bites of meat and scoops of creamy coleslaw, I ask him about the ranch and his

  role here.

  He starts off as a man of few words, answering my questions in one or two word sentences, but

  with relentless prodding, I manage to wrestle some interesting details out of him. The ranch is his, has

  been in the family for over a hundred years. His great-grandmother was a Stoney Indian from Eden

  Valley, a reserve not too far from the ranch, and I can see the hint of indigenous blood in his high

  cheekbones and broad facial structure. He has a sister, married, who lives in Calgary and no brothers,

  though his cousin Grayson, who now lives in Montana, was raised on the ranch and is like a brother to

  him.

  “What about your parents?” I ask, as I suck the last bit of flesh from a bone.

  “Both passed,” he replies, watching me with that inscrutable look. “Dad died ten years ago. Heart

  attack. Mom died a couple years later from a stroke. But I’d say it was more like a broken heart.”

  I stop chewing at the wistful tone in his voice.

  “Don’t get me wrong, they fought like rams in heat, but they were inseparable.”

  “Wow,” I say, trying to imagine such a lasting, loving relationship. I find the exercise impossible

  because it’s so far removed from my own experience and lifestyle. Not that I don’t know how to love.

  I do. Absolutely. It’s the idea of committing to only one person I struggle with. How is it even

  possible when there are so many wonderful people walking around this planet? I know some think I’m

  strange because I don’t believe in ‘the one’. But, I find others just as strange because they don’t

  believe in loving as many people as they can.

  “What about you?” he asks.

  “What about me?”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Right here.” I finish the rib I’m gnawing on and meet his gaze.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I used to have a condo in New York, but I travel so much for work I finally sold it.” Shrugging, I

  pick up another juicy rib and give it a lick. “Now I make my home wherever I am.”

  “Where do you keep your things?”

  With my chin, I indicate the bedroom. “All the stuff I own is in those bags you carried in.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Mmhm. I don’t hold onto stuff. “

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just stuff.” Smiling, I bite into the rib, watching him blink and process my

  words. People always have a hard time with the idea that I have no home or ‘things’. But I’ve never

  had a lot of my own things, no heirlooms, no mementos. Nothing. So, it’s never been strange for me.

  His silence stretches on and I turn my attention back to the delicious meal in front of me.

  However, my thoughts soon wander to my surroundings, the ranch, this cabin—one of the original

  structures here—and I wonder about what it would have been like to grow up here, to belong to a place

  that’s been in the family for generations. I glance around the room, trying to imagine Wade’s life,

  marveling at how far removed it is from mine.

  “Enjoying the food?”

  “Hmm?” I’m so lost in thought that I’d almost forgotten I was eating. I take note of the rib I’m

  holding and my sauce covered fingers.

  “I kind of took you for one of those vegetarians.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, maybe it’s your build. Slim. Fit.”

  “Well, I don’t actually eat that much meat, but when I do, I enjoy it.” I hold up the rib as an

  example. “And...oh my God. This is literally melting in my mouth.”

  “It’s been cooking for 12 hours.”

  “Damn.” I suck the bone then lick the barbeque sauce off my fingers. Suddenly, I stop because

  Wade’s watching me with this incredibly serious, narrowed-eyed expression. No. Not quite serious.

  One side of his mouth is turned up ever-so-slightly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re staring. You know that?”

  “You have an interesting way of eating.”

  “Is that interesting good? Or interesting embarrassing?”

  “Definitely good.” He smiles and although it’s not a full smile—I’d call it a lazy smile—it totally

  turns my innards to mush. “It’s very...sensual. It’s like you’re making love to your food.”

  My heart does another little flip and then takes a nose dive. So does the rib I’m holding, landing

  with a wet plop in my lap, smearing sauce all over my new jeans.

  “Shit,” I say, picking up the rib but only ending up getting more barbeque sauce on my pants from

  my sticky fingers.

  When I go to reach for a napkin, Wade is standing beside my chair, holding a damp cloth. “You

  might want to take those off and give them to me,” he says while I ineffectively blot the sauce from

  my jeans. “Otherwise they’ll stain.”

  “How embarrassing.” I groan because I’ve made a bigger mess by trying to clean myself off. “I’ll

  be right back.”

  Before I get sauce on anything else, I wash my hands, then take off my jeans. Standing in my

  panties, I go through my suitcase. Most of my stuff is business attire or city-casual. The jeans I spilled

  on were my dress denims and one of only two pairs I own. The other pair I bought at a thrift store.

  They’re well-worn and meant for the trail ride tomorrow. Not really what I had in mind for the

  activities tonight.

  Hmm...but this. I pull out a jean dress I’d purchased on a whim. It’s got a halter top with ties

  around the neck, white embroidery across the bodice and a just above the knee skirt. I wriggle into it

  and check myself out in the mirror.

  Not bad.

  The true test, however, is sitting out by the fire. I brush my teeth and apply a little lip gloss before

  going back out to the sitting room.

  Wade is standing, hat in hand, looking at his watch, obviously alerted to the lateness of the hour.

  “Damn. I’ve got to get to the dining hall before the band—” He doesn’t finish his sentence. “Wow,” he

  says quietly.

  “Is this okay for tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  I hand over my saucy jeans. “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” He takes the denim without taking his eyes off my bare shoulders. “I’ve got to help

  set up, but come on down to the Big House in about half an hour.” He speaks slowly, like he’s

  distracted.

  Good.

  I can’t help but smile.

  “We’ve g
ot a mechanical bull set up—though it might be difficult to ride in that dress—and a

  country and western band afterwards.” He tips his hat at me, all gentleman-like again, as if he hasn’t

  been checking me out for the last ten seconds and didn’t just tell me that I eat like I’m making love to

  my food.

  “I’ll be there,” I say.

  Chapter Three

  By the time I make it down to the Big House, the evening activities are in full swing. It’s funny, since

  I arrived at the ranch, Wade’s been the only person I’ve seen. Now that I’m in the Big House, I realize

  how busy the place is. There must be at least forty people in the main hall. At first, it’s hard to tell

  who works at the ranch and who the guests are because everyone’s wearing Western duds. However,

  it’s not long before I’m able to start separating guests from the real cowboys. The guests’ clothes are

  too new, too pressed, too fresh looking, while the cowboys look as if they’re born wearing what

  they’re wearing.

  I slip in amongst the group, nodding and smiling to a few people as I take a spot against the wall.

  From the map Wade gave me, I know this is the mess hall. It’s a large rectangular room with vaulted

  ceilings. On the wall are more animal heads, staring blankly at the guests. Hanging from the ceiling

  are chandeliers constructed out of clumps of antlers. Anywhere else, it would look tacky. Here, it’s

  perfect. Most of the tables have been folded and stacked against the wall to create an open area for the

  bull and dancing, but a few tables are left on the side of the room covered in platters of cheese and

  crackers, and big washtubs full of drinks in ice. There’s a stage in the back corner and the band

  members are already there, setting up.

  After taking in the room, my gaze settles on the cowboy who’s helping a young boy onto the

  mechanical bull in the center of the room. My tummy does a little flip. Wade looks even bigger when

  situated next to the pint-sized cowboy.

  “Hold on tight, Alex,” A woman says, the concern of a mother etched in her tone.

  Once Wade has the boy settled and shows him how to hold on, he turns to the woman. “Don’t

  worry. We’ll keep it on a low setting.”

  “No!” the boy cries. “I want to ride like a real cowboy on a real bull.”

  Wade speaks softly to the boy. I don’t know what he says, but it seems to pacify him. Stepping