by Zoe Lee
“And?”
“In my professional opinion, you’re a Grade-A beefcake,” she said in the same serious, dire tone a doctor might use to give a prognosis.
“Holy shit, no wonder he won’t shut up about you,” Jesse mumbled loudly, startling Daisy so that she twisted to look over. Jesse was slumped over the bar, a lemon drop between her fingertips, her long, thick loose braid disheveled. “For a girl who’s got a reputation as sweet as apple pie, you sure got a stack of pickup lines as awful as any frat douche-bro.”
Jesse was an impressive woman; she’d come out when she was a teenager, she’d been running the Dogwood Inn single-handedly for years, she threw the best New Year’s party, and she didn’t take any shit.
So her impassive assessment made Daisy slump in disappointment— she really wanted Dunk’s friends to like her, the real her.
But then Jesse cursed under her breath and reached out to shove at Dunk’s shoulder. “Get out of here for a minute, Dunk.”
“What? Why? What are you going to tell her?” Dunk demanded.
“How about I start with the time you snuck into Billy—”
“Okay then,” Dunk conceded hastily, holding his hands up in surrender even as his face went ruddy with embarrassment over whatever Jesse had been about to share. “I’ll just go tell Seth to break a leg, then.”
Daisy blinked uncertainly over at Jesse and smoothed her hands nervously down the front panel of her dress, plucking at the pleats.
Jesse tipped back her martini glass, polishing off her lemon drop, then asked, “Why’d you start working for your daddy?”
Shocked, Daisy met Jesse’s deep gaze, floundering. “Um…”
“My style is different than yours,” Jesse said in her gruff way, as Daisy realized that Jesse was maybe nervous, her eyes downcast and her fingers shoved into her pockets, rumpling the hem of her thermal around her hips. “But I like your work. It’s sturdy. I have your flawed mugs on my kitchen windowsill. The ones where they look like they started to melt a little, the top’s got brown glaze dripping down it but the base is bare?”
“Fall 2013,” Daisy murmured, her head tipping to one side.
Jesse shrugged. “I bought them off Leah over at Archer Farms.”
“They bought a lot for the tasting room,” Daisy remembered, “and I threw in all the flawed ones to be vases or whatever.” Then her face scrunched up and she pointed out, “I can’t believe Leah sold them!”
“Don’t worry,” Jesse snorted, “I only paid like $2 each.”
Daisy’s long, winged eyebrows slid up.
Jesse sort of coughed, hiding laughter or embarrassment behind her fist for the couple seconds it took her to get it under control.
“That right there is why I work for my daddy now,” Daisy told her with a wry laugh. “I gave things away, and I lived in my brother’s guest room.”
“Hmm,” Jesse said, one eyebrow cocked thoughtfully.
Suddenly, something heavy smacked into Daisy’s back.
Someone, she amended, when Dunk’s thick arms wrapped around her, his smell coiling around her just as warmly.
“Did you finish threatening Daisy yet?” he asked easily.
“I didn’t threaten her,” Jesse said, crossing her arms. “She’s less of a princess than I thought. More like Tinkerbell. Pint-sized trouble.”
“Then why did you get rid of me?” Dunk pouted.
Shooting Daisy a lazy wink, Jesse told him unrepentantly, “To watch you freak out that I might tell her that story.”
“Okay, what is the story?” Daisy practically demanded.
Dunk hid his face in her hair between her shoulder blades while Jesse told a story about skinny dipping on private property, and Daisy shook with laughter, reaching behind herself to pat Dunk’s hip.
Before they could move onto other embarrassing stories about Dunk, Seth cleared his throat into one of the standing mics on the small stage.
Jesse put two fingers in her mouth and wolf whistled.
“Hey, Jesse Riley,” Seth murmured into the mic with a quiet smile, pushing one hand through his wayward hair, the quintessential folksy musician. “Hey, y’all. I’m Seth Riveau, and me and my buddies are going to play some bluegrass and some country covers of pop songs.”
“You want a drink, darlin’?” Dunk asked, hand pressed warm and sweet to the small of her back even as he was already stepping towards the bar.
“Please,” Daisy said, and chose a beer.
While he was distracted, turned towards the bar where Aden poured the beer and tossed jabs at him, Daisy tried to calm her heartbeat.
He felt so good pressed against her, wrapped around her, his body, his smell, his heat, his voice. There was always this energy around him, this warmth pouring out from him that was comforting and intoxicating. She’d never been with a man so tall and broad and muscled, or so loud and exuberant. They never ran out of things to say, and even those moments when she’d stuttered or he’d put both of his feet in his mouth, she still felt comfortable. It had been a long time since she’d enjoyed anyone’s company this much, and that included her best friends, who were amazing, but they were so restrained or fearful, compared to Dunk.
Take me home, she almost begged him. Take me home and lay me down on my crappy futon, and make me feel like I really am in a fairy tale.
Chapter 10
Dunk
Dunk felt Jesse’s sharp elbow jab him and then she asked, “Can you get me another lemon drop too? We’re going to go near the stage.”
He ordered their drinks from Aden, then leaned back against the bar, watching Daisy and Jesse as they made their way through the tables and onto the dance floor.
It made something in his chest clutch to see them standing together and talking, to see Jesse so comfortable with Daisy. Jesse was usually standoffish with women, this reserve she felt she had to keep because everyone knew she was a lesbian and she didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. It said something about Daisy, about how open-hearted she was with everyone, that Jesse actually smiled at her, even laughed.
“Would you look at that,” Aden murmured from behind Dunk.
Dunk twisted his shoulders enough to meet Aden’s eyes.
“I was an asshole about the Cinderella thing, not just giving you Leda’s guest list,” Aden went on, grimacing as he worked up to an apology.
Dunk was tempted to give him a shit-eating grin, but he knew how hard it was for Aden to say shit like this.
“But I’m not sorry,” Aden went on defiantly. “Cause, you know, it’s kind of working out really well. Even Jesse likes Daisy. I’m surprised.”
“Daisy’s awesome,” Dunk said, a touch defensively.
“I’m not saying she isn’t,” Aden pointed out with more patience than he would have before he’d met his girlfriend Chase. “But you have to admit, their personalities are very different. It doesn’t seem like a natural fit.”
Dunk picked up his pint and took a long sip, then finally let loose that grin. “You could say the same thing about you and me, Aden. I’m loud and happy and I love talking to everyone, and you’re a grumpy hermit.”
“I was. I’m better now,” Aden grumbled, making Dunk laugh. “Shut up, I’m not getting mushy with you just because you got a girlfriend.”
“I don’t know if she’s my girlfriend,” Dunk said, his grin collapsing a little bit.
Aden smacked him on the back of his head. “Ask her then, you idiot.”
Dunk shrugged, feeling awkward in his body in a way that was really rare for him, uncomfortable at the idea. He hadn’t asked a woman to be his girlfriend since he was probably twenty, for God’s sake. Women loved him—he knew that, he wasn’t that dumb—but they weren’t interested in dating him. They loved him, but they didn’t want to get to know him. They didn’t want to talk about what books he read or his opinion on gender inequality or whether he had ambitions.
“What’s that?” Aden demanded, waving vaguely at Dunk’s expression
.
“What if… what if all she wants is, you know…”
“Sex?” Aden supplied. He snorted and lifted his hand to smack Dunk again, but he danced back from the bar so Aden couldn’t reach. “Look at her, Dunk,” he ordered one of his best friends.
Dunk was already looking at her. She was wearing a violet dress that ended mid-thigh, sheer black tights, and purple heels. The dress hugged her breasts and waist and then fanned out around her knees, showing off her curves and the soft, sleek lines of her legs and shoulders. That wild hair of hers was barely tamed, braided in the front and wound around itself in a pile on the top of her head, baring the nape of her neck.
Seth and the band he was playing with tonight had started, some folk rock number that had her swaying in little arcs, brushing against Jesse and the woman on her other side carelessly. He was sure her eyes were bright and joyful, sparkling with her adorable wit and quirky sense of humor.
“You know that girl is crazy about you,” Aden stated with that solid, centered certainty he had. “She holds your hand. She texts you silly things about her day. She asks you about your day and she listens to you.”
“Yeah,” Dunk said, some of Aden’s certainty rubbing off on him. He turned back to Aden long enough to clap him on the shoulder and then pick up all three of their drinks. “Thanks for the pep talk, buddy.”
With every foot he walked, getting closer to her, he swore he could feel her calling out to him, tendrils of her reaching for him. He swore he felt them slipping gently up his fingertips, coiling softly around his wrists and up his arms, then snaking over his chest and around his ribs and abs.
She spun around when he came up behind her, as if she sensed him the same way he sensed her, and her face lit up. “There you are!”
Jesse smirked off to the side.
Dunk held up his hands and they took their drinks. “Cheers, two of my favorite ladies,” he said, and they clinked their glasses all together.
The band started a new song, something completely different than the other folksy numbers, and he couldn’t quite figure out what it was.
“Oh my God, I love this song!” Daisy cried, bouncing up and down.
Dunk hastily took her beer, but then he almost dropped it in shock when she started dancing. Not bopping, not swaying, but moving. She thrust, slow and dirty, back into him, screwing that ass against the fly of his jeans. Dunk’s eyes flew wide, darting all around, but no one had noticed, as if it were so out of the realm of possibility that they didn’t even see.
“Can’t keep my hands to myself,” Daisy sang along.
“Oh my God,” Dunk groaned faintly. He had a drink in each hand, held out awkwardly to bracket her, and damn it, he wanted his hands on her, too. “Jesse,” he wheezed, “Jesus, can you—”
“I got you,” she said, her eyes firmly fixed over Dunk’s shoulder as she took his beer, then skirted behind him to take Daisy’s. “I’m just gonna—”
As soon as Jesse was gone, Dunk palmed Daisy’s tight waist and buried his mouth in the arch of her neck, groaning out a low curse. He couldn’t dance like this, he didn’t even know how she knew what to do. But he sure as hell could stand there, boots braced apart, and keep his hands on her waist while she moved against him. He’d never had one, but it was like the classiest, most erotic, most maddening lap dance that he could imagine.
Somehow he made it through the song without rubbing one out against Daisy like a teenager or dragging her out of there like a caveman.
He couldn’t leave four songs into Seth’s set. For one, he’d promised Seth that he’d be there to support him. Seth had moved back to Maybelle almost two years ago after his best friend and sometime co-songwriter had passed away, and he was still so wary of performing. It didn’t matter how horny and desperate Dunk was, or how much he wanted to get Daisy alone to make love and then ask her to be his girlfriend. He couldn’t let Seth down, no matter that he wasn’t the only one there for Seth.
But, damn, he wished time would speed up, instead of each second resounding through his body, every touch and breathy giggle out of Daisy as burning as the hot clutch of her body moving up and down on him.
So when an up-tempo song started up, he snatched Daisy’s hand and swung her so that they faced each other, but with space between them.
He grinned at her, knowing it probably looked wild, or possibly totally unhinged. “I,” he declared, “challenge you to a dance off, Daisy Rhys.”
And before she could point out that she was already kicking his ass in the dance department, he did a sort of half-ass squat, flung out one arm, put his other hand near his ear, and started the sprinkler.
For a second, she looked frozen, as if she were totally mortified.
His face fell and the sprinkler wobbled.
Her little hand fisted and he had no idea what the hell was about to happen.
Then she jerked her fist back towards her shoulder.
And did the lawn mower, her breasts jiggling magnificently.
Dunk beamed and upped his game with the running man, which he was spectacular at, if he did say so himself. People eased away from him, sending him amused, indulgent looks or rolling their eyes fondly.
Daisy pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes, and doubled down with the cabbage patch, going full out, her head thrown back, her whole body contorting. How she could look so amazing and so dorky was a fucking beautiful thing.
“I don’t know what’s happening over there,” Seth’s voice rolled out over the bridge of a country version of Paramore’s “The Only Exception.”
“Dunk’s a free-e-eak!” Jesse yelled out.
Everyone laughed and whistled, but Dunk could care less, because Daisy was right there with him, mirroring his Pulp Fiction move, her smile so big and bright, he swore it cast a shadow.
“Looks like Dunk’s met his match,” Seth murmured to everyone. “So the next song’s for you, Daisy Rhys, the sweetest girl in Maybelle.”
Daisy raised her hands to her cheeks, blushing, looking around and smiling almost sheepishly at everyone who was looking at her.
The band finished out the song, and then Seth bent to talk to the rest of the band, who shook their heads. The keyboardist stepped out from behind his keyboard and Seth cracked his knuckles before taking his place and adjusting the mic. He settled his fingers on the keys, took in a slow, deep breath, and then started to play and sing “Some Kind of Wonderful.”
It was a stripped-down, slow version, full of this sort of melancholy yearning that Seth’s face and voice were designed for.
Dunk hurt for his friend, but Seth just winked at him and angled his head towards Daisy. Hold that girl, he was telling Dunk, hold onto that girl.
And Dunk listened to the advice of people who were wiser than he was, so he pulled Daisy into his arms. He clasped one of her hands in his over his heart, the other arm twining around her waist. She was so much shorter than him that her cheek was pressed to his diaphragm, but that was fine with him because he could skim his jaw along the crown of her head.
“Dunk?” she whispered, her voice husky as it drifted up into his ears.
“Yeah, darlin’?”
“I totally kicked your ass at the dance-off.”
He chuckled and brushed his lips over her temple. “I guess I’ll just have to switch to two-a-day practices so I can take you in the rematch.”
Her smile curled delicately.
“Are you my girlfriend?” he blurted out, mind wiped out by that smile.
The song ended and Dunk tried not to find it ominous as Daisy eased back a fraction so that she could meet his intent gaze.
She tipped her head to one side, baby-soft frizzies along her hairline glinting gold under the bar lights. “Do you want me to be?”
“What kind of question is that?” he asked, brows knitted.
“A fair one,” she returned quietly.
Swallowing, he nodded. “Of course I do, Daisy. I don’t… you know I don’t have girlfriends. It’s
been a lot of years.”
“But was that your choice?” she asked, again in that quiet tone, as if she were afraid the questions were going to hurt him. “Or have the other women made that decision? Just told you they were happy with a no-strings, no-pressure night here and there, and you went along?”
“I don’t like the way that makes me or the women in my past sound,” he said, his voice hardening, his hands falling away from her to cross over his chest. If there was a flash of uncertainty in the gesture, he didn’t realize it. “No one ever took advantage of me. And this isn’t about anyone else but you and me, Daisy Rhys. You need me to say it again? I’ll say it every damn day, every damn hour if you need me to. I’ve been dating you, exclusively, and I want to be your boyfriend, want to call you my girlfriend.”
“Okay,” she said, the word quivering, one of her hands coming up to smooth along his temple so she could hold one side of his jaw.
“Okay what?” he couldn’t help but ask, not sure ifs he was agreeing to his explanation, his offer to tell her all the time, or his original question.
She strained up as tall as she could make herself, her lips parted.
He kissed her, confused by the feeling that she was talking about something deeper than he understood, that she was hearing things he didn’t know he was saying. But he couldn’t control what she was thinking or feeling and he’d never want to, so he let the confusion slip under the giant, crashing wave of pleasure when his mouth melded with hers.
“Say it again,” Daisy pleaded on a low gasp.
“I want to be your boyfriend and I want you to be my girlfriend,” he repeated, his fingers digging into her back because he thought now that he’d had it wrong. It wasn’t about understanding something deep in his unconsciousness. She needed to know that he wanted her, that he wanted to be with her, that he wanted to be hers as much as he wanted her to be his. “I’m a pretty happy guy, that’s… my default setting,” he went on. “But there aren’t that many people or things that make me feel…”
The simple truth of what he felt for Daisy perched on the tip of his tongue.