Page 65 of Awaiting the Storm
Conversation is easy between us. We talk about everything and nothing. I ask questions, not really caring much about the answers. I just like hearing her talk.
The waitress brings our drinks and leaves the bottle for Matty. The more she sips, the more she relaxes and opens up. She tells me about the horses she researched online and is considering bidding on in the next auction, the new makeover the barn’s getting next week, and how the almanac is predicting record snow this year. Then she moves into stories from when she was young. How her mother taught her how to ride and make pie crust from scratch. How her grandma Evelyn once chased a black bearout of the kitchen after they left the back door open one night. I tell her about my parents, the farm, and summers spent in Wildhaven with Waylon.
By the time the pizza comes, we’re both laughing. Matty’s got a wine flush in her cheeks, and her sweater’s slipped lower on her shoulder. I don’t know if she even notices, but I do know it’s killing me.
She takes her first bite of pizza, eyes fluttering closed, and she moans in delight, causing my skin to prickle.
“Mmm …”
“Good?” I ask as I watch her swallow.
“Better than good,” she mumbles. “It’s the cheese. It’s gotta stretch like a good six to seven inches between bite and plate, or it doesn’t count.”
“Seven inches, huh?”
She shoots me a look and grins. “Don’t.”
I laugh into my beer. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The musician switches to something a little more upbeat—something with a twang and a steady rhythm that has a few couples getting up to dance in the space between the booths. Matty taps her foot to the beat and sips her wine.
“You wanna dance?” I ask, eyes on her.
She hesitates. Then shakes her head. “Let’s finish the pizza first. I’m not letting good cheese go cold.”
We don’t end up dancing. We sit there long after the last slice is gone, talking and sipping and listening to the hum of the night around us.
I can’t stop watching her.
She talks with her hands. She laughs with her whole face. She licks stray sauce off her thumb like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I have to look away before I do something dumb—like reach for her hand and lick a dollop off myself.
By the time we head back out to the truck, I swear the temperature has dropped twenty degrees and the air is frigid. She hugs her arms around herself, and I shrug out of my jacket and wrap it around her shoulders.
She gives me this look—soft, appreciative, like she’s not used tosomeone being so attentive to her needs. And the thought pisses me off. I know her father loves her, her grandparents as well, but they also rely on her a lot.
Who does she rely on?
The question plagues in my mind as I tuck her into the passenger seat of my truck, quickly hopping in myself to start the engine and get the heat circulating. Matty pulls her legs up, wraps her arms around her knees, and rests her head against the back of the leather seat. Eyes closed. A smile on her lips.
“You okay over there?” I ask, and she hums in response.
I think the wine is working its magic on her because she seems relaxed and content. Or maybe it was the extra-extra cheese. I chuckle at the thought, and her eyes open at the sound.
“What?” she whispers.
I reach over and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and cup her cheek. “Just thinking that you might be in a cheese coma.”
Her eyes crinkle in amusement as a giggle escapes her, and I can’t help myself. I lean over and press my lips to hers. She sighs against my mouth before tilting her head slightly, allowing me to deepen the kiss. Our tongues tangle, soft and slow.
When I finally lean back, her eyes flutter open.
I really want to take her home with me, pick up where we left off the last time I had her in my bed, but I made her a promise that I was going to take her home.
And I don’t break promises.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” he says. “We’re here.”
I blink my eyes open. I wasn’t fully asleep, just very content. “Where?” I ask as my eyes adjust.
