Page 111 of Crystal Iris
“Ranch clothes,” I reply.
He chuckles.
“And underwear,” I add.
He swallows, hard.
I fuss with the radio until I find a good country song I know. I’m starting to get into the genre.
“I would love to take you to a country concert sometime,” Hoyt says, singing word by word.
“I don’t think I know enough songs.”
“We have time,” he says, turning up the volume while opening the windows. I smile. I poke my head outside and let the wind blow through my hair.I could get used to this.
I look around, completely lost at what kind of gear I actually need. There are too many options. Rows and rows of boots, hats, belts… I just want to start wearing my own things instead of borrowing Johanna’s.
I’m holding a ridiculous amount of clothes to try on when he says, “Can you model them for me?” He takes a seat outside the fitting rooms.
“I don’t think you’ll like the sight of me in these clothes. They’re… comfortable.” I open the door for him to see what I’ve tried on.
He smiles. I’m wearing a plaid button-down and jeans. I’ve also put on a new pair of boots—I need another option to switch with the pair I already have.
He’s still looking at me, grinning.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. I… I never thought I’d see you in these clothes.”
“Don’t get too used to it. It’s just for the summer.”
“Right.” Something changes in his eyes. My own words make me a little sad too. This thing we’ve got going is ending soon.
“I think I have everything I need,” I say, piling my things on the counter.
“I think you’re forgetting…” He leans closer and whispers in my ear, “Underwear.”
I smile. I was joking when I mentioned it. But now, I would love to see his face when I browse for some.
“They don’t sell the kind I need here.”
I think Hoyt would be uncomfortable when I enter the lingerie store. Turns out, I’m the one who blushes. I remind myself to have fun, to let go a bit.
“Should I model them for you again?” I say, picking a black lacy pair.
“It’s pretty wicked to tell me you want to take things slow, then ask me to come shop with you for… that.” His eyes are hungry—turns out, he does get uncomfortable. He moves quickly, hiding what’s just happened, what’s just hardened.
I smile at him.
“But wicked slow can be… so good,” I say, picking up a red piece.
He runs his hands through his hair and walks out, saying he’s going to wait for me outside.
I end up buying a couple of things.
“I can make spaghetti,” I say the following evening when Hoyt comes back from an equine auction.
“Yes, you can. It’s delicious, thank you,” he says, putting his feet up on the coffee table and swirling his noodles with a fork.
