Page 29 of Impossible Love

Cal

It’s another beautiful spring day, and the top is down on the Jeep. My passenger is the lovely and grumpy Victoria Backlund. In addition to her movie-star sunglasses, she’s wearing canvas hiking shoes, another pair of jeans, and a pale blue long-sleeve performance T-shirt. A cotton sweater is draped over her shoulders. I hope she’ll be warm enough. Maybe I wasn’t clear about what we can expect in terms of weather. Where we’re headed, temperatures can easily swing thirty degrees in either direction, depending on the time of day, wind speed, and elevation.

Like the rest of this little adventure, I guess I’ll just have to wait and see how it goes.

No more than ten minutes into the drive, she’s gobsmacked. Her head is on a swivel, looking left and right and up and down. She keeps commenting on how beautiful it is. She isn’t short on questions, either.

“What kind of cows are those?” She shouts out her question over the sound of the tires on rough surfaces.

I shout in response. “Out here are Angus, Hereford, and Simmental. We raise them to sell as grass-fed beef. We have a few dairy cows in a pasture closer to the main house.”

A few minutes later she asks, “Are there any fish in that lake?” She points to Red Rock Lake, visible past the escarpment to our west.

“Yep! Both here and in Bass Lake, near my house. There’s good fishing in the rivers too, even brown trout. Do you enjoy fishing?”

She turns to look at me, pushing down her sunglasses. One eyebrow is raised. “No,” she says, shoving her frames back into place. “But I do enjoy eating fish. Oh, and I love being on the water. Nothing makes me happier.”

“Oh, really? Do you sail?”

“Absolutely I do. I live in San Diego. Have you ever learned to sail?”

I grin at her. “Yeah. A career in the Navy can do that to a man.”

It’s a bumpy ride to Sulfur Springs, almost thirty miles over rutted and rippled roads, most of them dirt, some of them gravel. As we drive, I do my best to serve as tour guide. I explain that the majestic red cliffs along the river are sandstone, and the flat-top mesas were formed by millions of years of water and wind erosion.

She asks me about the wildflowers. I tell her that I’m not a plant expert, but that I’ve heard Phyllis talk about purple lupine, scarlet paintbrush, and columbine.

“Look!” She points to a field of bright yellow flowers carpeting the desert floor. “Those are some kind of daisies!”

I tell her she might be right.

We’re chatting about the varieties of bushes and trees—Joshua trees, asters, sages, and creosote—when I realize I’m losing the plot. This woman has a habit of making me do that. I have to remind myself that I’m not a real estate agent or some kind of salesman. I have no interest in selling her a damn thing. In fact, I’m hellbent on her leaving here empty-handed.

I’m just doing what my dad asked of me. Nothing more. I need to keep that in mind.

When she pulls her sweater off her shoulders and yanks it over her head, I can’t help but take a peek. My mouth goes dry. Her tits are perfect handfuls, or I estimate that they’d fit perfectly in the palms of my hands, anyway. Round and soft. All real.

I have to look away before she catches me ogling. I need to get a grip.

Last night really fucked with my head. The memory of her naked body has got me unhinged. She stood on the back patio, the stars shining down on her flesh, every dip and swell of her perfect body soft in the glow of the string lights. She was so gorgeous it was startling. So beautiful it hurt.

And this morning’s dream sure as hell didn’t help.

But there was nothing beautiful about what came out of her mouth last night. Maybe you’re the one taking advantage of James MacLaine. Or what she said yesterday on the ride to the ranch. They won’t know what hit them.

Yeah, well, fuck that. I’m no one’s target.

I see her rub her upper arms. “I can put up the top.”

“No. It’s too beautiful.”

“Want my coat?”

“No. I’m fine.”

What’s the deal with Victoria Backlund? Is she determined not to appear weak? Is this her baseline pissed-off approach to life—or is she pissed with me in particular? Both? Maybe she’s still a little hungover.

We ride for a while without speaking. She seems to be enjoying the fresh air, sunshine, and scenery. But she’s too quiet. I wonder if she feels as strange as I do about everything that happened last night. Of course she does—unless she makes it a habit of stripping in front of men she’s just met, and if she does, it’s none of my business.

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