Текст книги "Savor"

Автор книги: Monica Murphy

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

Chapter Three

Matt

I CAME INTO work early Monday morning, so I could walk the fields and inspect the vineyards alone before anyone else got there, my new absolute favorite thing to do. I’m not a sit-in-the-office kind of guy. A nine-to-five job holds absolutely no appeal. When I bought the winery, I didn’t know shit about wine besides the fact that I liked some, but I definitely wasn’t a connoisseur. More like an I’ll-drink-some-wine-if-you-have-nothing-else type of guy.

I preferred beer.

But I’ve since learned there’s a science to wine making. It’s a formula, with a bit of luck thrown in for good measure. The grapes have to be just so. The weather has to be a certain way to insure that.

A variety of factors play into it. Some we have complete and total control over and others . . .

We’re at the whim of their command, which drives those scientist brains absolutely crazy.

There’s more to my spending time out in the fields this particular morning. And it all has to do with a particular woman. I’m avoiding the office because Bryn will arrive soon, and I don’t want to see her. That picture Archer showed me haunted my thoughts the rest of the day. Hell, the rest of the weekend. All that hair—I could only imagine slipping my fingers through it. Wrapping those long, silky strands around my fist and giving it a tug. Pulling her in so I could kiss her. Burying my face into the soft mass and inhaling her delicious scent.

She had on a red T-shirt in the picture, that mysterious little close-lipped smile and makeup on her face. I could tell because for the first time ever, I really noticed her eyes. They were crystal blue like a perfect summer sky.

Needless to say, after thinking about Bryn a little too much, I took a shower and jerked off. This new addition to the bet with Archer and Gage is going to kill me. I couldn’t even run out and find some anonymous chick and fuck her. I could lie, I guess. Keep it from them.

But I wouldn’t feel right about that and besides they’d figure me out. They always do. I don’t like liars. My father is a consummate one. Seeing how his lies always ended up getting him in trouble, I purposely keep myself on the straight and narrow. I’m brutally honest. Always.

Archer knows it too, that motherfucker. It was like he set that entire deal up. He knew I was interested in Bryn and he knew she would tempt me. Always one step ahead, that guy.

The field employees start to slowly trickle in, and my phone starts blowing up with emails, text messages, and phone calls. The workday has officially kicked off, so I decide to pack it in and reluctantly head for the office. I know Bryn’s there; I see her car in the parking lot. As I walk through the vineyard, I go over the various scenarios that could be awaiting me within the building:

Bryn, wearing her hair down and clad in some sort of sexy skirt and button-up shirt combo with her cleavage on display.

Or Bryn, back to normal with her hair pulled into a tight bun and the baggy beige ensemble I’ve come to depend on.

Worse, maybe there will be a combo Bryn sitting behind her desk: hair down, beige pants and top on, those pretty eyes enhanced with cosmetics, all of it designed to drive me absolutely wild with lust. That Bryn just might do me in—every facet of her on display, making me want her.

Clearly I have too much time on my hands if I’m coming up with all of these ridiculous thoughts. I need to focus on the most important task at hand. Today’s Monday and the grand reopening is Friday. There’s still so much to do for this giant event it’s not even funny.

And Bryn is pretty much handling everything—consulting me along the way, of course.

Hell.

I enter the building, the cool air greeting me. It’s blessedly silent, and I walk down the hall toward my office, nerves eating at my gut as I roll up first one sleeve, then the other of my navy blue button-down. I’m wearing jeans and my work boots, thankful for the casual atmosphere. Every time I have to put on a monkey suit, I feel ridiculous, uncomfortable.

So not my thing.

I enter the outer office where Bryn’s desk is and stop short, my eyes widening at the sight before me. It’s Bryn, bent over the file cabinet that sits just behind her desk, her very fine ass waving in the air as she searches through the files.

The fact that I can actually see the shape of her ass tells me she’s wearing something completely different than usual. Second clue, there’s not a hint of beige or tan or khaki in sight.

The dress is black, with a delicate floral print in hints of green and turquoise. The flared skirt stops just above her knee, which means if she was bent over the cabinet much farther, I’d be looking at her panties.

Just the word panties makes my entire body twitch in anticipation. Those long, bare legs make my gut twist and her scent washes over me, sweet and so uniquely Bryn I’m afraid I might do something fucking crazy.

Like sneak up on her, wrap my hands around her waist and tug her close. Let her feel exactly what she does to me.

Deciding I shouldn’t surprise her, I clear my throat, letting her know I’ve arrived. A little gasp escapes her and she stands up straight, pushing the drawer in with a loud slam as she turns—in black high-heeled shoes that fuel all sorts of instant fantasies—to face me.

“Matt! Um, Mr. DeLuca, good morning.” She runs her hands down the front of her dress, her expression self-conscious, her movements agitated.

The dress fits her like a dream. I can see the shape of her full breasts, the nip in her waist, the flare of her hips. Her arms are completely exposed, slender and graceful and she lifts one, smoothing her elegant hand over her hair in a most definite nervous gesture.

Her hair just so happens to be pulled back but not like usual. It’s in a loose braid, and a few wisps curl around her face, emphasizing the exotic slant of cheekbones I’ve never noticed before.

Good God, my assistant is smoking-ass hot.

“Morning,” I say, clearing my throat, but the word comes out more like a strangled croak. “You look . . . ah . . . nice.”

She darts behind her desk and lands in her chair, pulling it up close, almost like she’s using her desk as some sort of protective shield. Too late, I’ve already seen her, and I wholeheartedly approve. “Thank you.”

I don’t know what else to say. All sorts of questions are running through my brain. Like, What happened? Why did you go shopping with Ivy and Marina? What made you decide to give up beige? Is this a temporary thing or permanent, because I don’t know if my heart can take it, seeing you like this every single day.

Instead, I go for the safe and boring. It’s easier. Less risky.

“Did you have a nice weekend?” I slowly approach her desk, noticing the way her fingers shake slightly when she picks up a pile of paper, straightens it and then puts it to the side.

Interesting.

“I did, thank you. How about you?” She picks up a pen and taps it against the edge of her pursed lips. Lips covered by a slick of pale peach gloss, I might add.

It was fucking great. I went and golfed with my best friends, we made a new bet that I can’t touch any woman—including you—for the next forty-five days and then I saw a picture of you and your new look. I jerked off twice, not that seeing your photo with all that sexy-as-fuck hair is related—no, not at all. Then I come to work and see you like this, and all I can think about is how much I want to get my hands on you. All over you.

“It was fine,” I answer, stopping just in front of her desk. She looks up at me, and my gaze drops to the elegant line of her neck, her exposed collarbone. She’s wearing a delicate gold necklace with a little charm dangling from it. I can’t quite tell what it is.

All I know is I want to fucking kiss her right there, where her skin is probably soft and sweet and scented. Follow the thin, tempting line of the necklace, kiss her all around her neck, her nape, her collarbone. Lick and nibble and make her moan.

“Is there anything in particular you’d like me to do for you this morning?”

Her sweet, sultry and slightly trembling voice knocks me from my thoughts and turns them even dirtier, if that’s possible.

Why yes, Miss James. I’d love it if you could perch your pretty little ass right on the edge of your desk, slowly lift your skirt and spread your legs so I can see what you’re hiding under there. Maybe lick your peach glossed lips and say something subtly filthy like, “I’ve got something I’d like you to do, Mr. DeLuca. How about . . . me?”

I blink, hard. Twice. Trying to push the image of Bryn inviting me to fuck her from my head, but it’s just no use. She’s all I can see. Her hands braced behind her on the desk, her spread legs dangling, the skirt of her dress bunched around her waist. I can imagine her wearing skimpy black lace panties, panties I can see right through.

She fucking works for you! Get your mind out of the gutter.

Damn, the state board of equalization could have a field day with me. I’m a pervert of the highest degree.

“Let me make a few calls and check my emails. I’m sure there’s plenty I’ll need you to do today, like usual. This week is going to be a busy one,” I say, my voice brusque as I turn away from her desk and head toward my office door. “You’ll probably need to work late all week, just warning you.”

That statement conjures up more images, ones I hurriedly push out my brain so they don’t clog it all up and distract me again.

“I don’t mind,” she calls after me. “I have a list of things I’m going to follow up on. I’m calling the caterer right now because there are still a few unresolved items, including the final headcount for the party Friday night. I’ll come see you in a bit so we can go over everything.”

“Sounds good,” I say as I open my office door and slam it shut behind me.

My breathing erratic like I just ran around the bases at top speed, I collapse in my chair. Exhaling loudly, I lean my head against the back of it, staring at the ceiling. Bryn’s pretty face, those sexy glossed lips still forefront in my mind.

Holy hell. She looks freaking amazing. Combine all that with her heady scent, her sensible work ethic, that curvy figure, her dependability, those damn black shoes that are giving me heart palpitations, and I’m a dead man.

Forty-three days, and I can’t touch a single woman, or I risk a million-dollar-plus loss. And it’s not that I need the money, it’s the principle of the matter. I won the initial bet fair and square. Now those two so-called friends of mine have changed it up and put me in a bind.

It’s my own damn fault though. I’m the one who agreed to it in the first place.

Worse? All I can think about is touching a woman. Well, a particular one. Sitting a few feet away from me. The same woman who just so happens to work for me.

And the only person I can blame is myself.

Bryn

MATT SLAMS HIS office door with a finality that makes me jump in my chair. My heart racing, I rest my hand over my chest, feel it flutter against my palm like the furiously fast wings of a hummingbird. I hadn’t expected him to walk inside at that particular moment—with my butt in the air. I was searching through the file cabinet looking for an invoice I know I paid after just receiving a past due notice in the weekend’s mail.

So embarrassing, him catching me like that. God.

I found the paid bill. Had started ruffling around looking for something else, I can’t even remember what, when I heard him clear his throat. God, he’d surprised me. I’d nearly leapt out of my skin when I turned to find him standing there, looking as gorgeous as can be. Per his usual, if I’m being truthful.

Not the way I wanted to make an impression. No, I’d planned on sitting behind my desk when I first saw him this morning. Calm, cool, and efficient, offering a bright “good morning” with an equally bright smile. Watch him stare at me in total shock.

Well, I got the shocked stare, that was for sure. But I also noticed how his gaze had been zeroed in on my backside when I was bent over before it rose quickly to meet my eyes. He didn’t say anything about my change in appearance beyond the standard “you look nice.”

Nice.

How boring is that? Then he went on to ask if I had a nice weekend too, like nothing had changed, nothing was different. Not that I want him to be a slobbering idiot like my creeper old boss. But I thought I’d at least thoroughly impress Matt with the dress, the hair, the makeup, and the shoes.

God, the shoes. They’re pinching my toes and I don’t think I’ve been here even an hour.

I’d expected at least a “you look pretty” comment or something. Anything really.

But it was the same old thing. Back to work. Gotta keep on it, we’re so busy, and I need you to work late, Miss James, blah, blah, blah. Just like his usual self.

Instead of disappointment, I should be glad. I should be relieved and thankful he didn’t leer at me and tell me how sexy I looked and could he get a hand up my skirt or anything like that. My old boss spoke to me like that all the time. He literally asked if he could feel up my “titties” one afternoon. I really hate that word. I’d worked as his receptionist for two whole weeks when he asked that particular question.

I’d been so surprised I’d politely told him, “I don’t think so.”

I don’t think so. I’d been so naive and shocked, I’d even giggled when I said it, which probably gave him the wrong idea.

That I’d willingly let him kiss me and touch my so-called titties within two months of that first request probably gave him the wrong idea too.

Sighing, I rub my forehead, run my hand over my hair. I’d planned on wearing it down and decided at the last minute I couldn’t do it. The dress, the makeup, and the shoes were bad enough. The hair, my one crowning glory as my grandma always called it, would’ve made it more than obvious.

My daily appearance as the drab, neutral Miss James is a complete facade. How I’m dressed at this very moment, I’m more like my old, sexy, too-pretty-for-her-own-good Bryn self.

Shopping with Ivy and Marina had been so much fun though. Those girls ran me ragged all Saturday afternoon and into the evening. That little pregnant and supposedly exhausted Ivy was the fastest of us all, too. She pulled out so many things for me to try on, I’d been stuck in one dressing room after another, all over downtown St. Helena.

I’d broken out the credit card and bought a few new pieces of clothing for work, this dress being one of them. Then they took me to a salon, and I got my hair cut. I can’t remember the last time I had it trimmed, and it felt so good to have it professionally shaped and styled, some of that heavy weight cut off since my hair is so thick.

When they offered the free makeover, I decided why not. What could it hurt? Not that I don’t know how to apply makeup. I have an entire box of the stuff at home, stuffed under the sink. I haven’t busted it out once since I arrived in St. Helena. I was a new person and this version of Bryn James didn’t wear makeup.

The makeup artist was good and Ivy and Marina were beside themselves when it was all said and done. The new hair, the new face—they couldn’t stop going on about how fabulous I looked.

Or how fabulous they thought Matt would find me.

Those words made me nervous. I wasn’t doing this just to get a reaction out of Matt. I also did it for me. To bond with these two women who felt like they could be true friends. Had I ever really had friends? When I was little, yes, I had a bunch of them. I ran around with a group of kids who lived in the trailer park with me. But as I got older, filled out and got curves, the boys started paying attention to me in a different way.

And the girls didn’t really like me anymore.

Shoving those unpleasant thoughts from my mind, I remember the last store we went into before going out to dinner. They’d been ready to close up shop, the employees irritated that we’d come in. Ivy had spotted a dress in the window she declared perfect for me to wear to the grand reopening and I’d reluctantly agreed.

The moment I put the magenta dress on, I knew Ivy had been right. It felt silky on my skin, with thin straps that wrapped over my shoulders and an almost completely exposed back. A deep V in the front showed off my cleavage, and the slightly fitted skirt hugged my hips and thighs stopping just above my knee. The dress was sophisticated and gorgeous and sexy. Marina and Ivy practically peed themselves they’d been so excited to see me in it when I emerged from the dressing room. I turned this way and that, smiling and laughing with them as I imagined what Matt might do when he saw me in it.

Then I slipped back into the dressing room, caught sight of the price tag and gasped in surprise.

It cost almost my entire month’s paycheck.

Immediately depressed, I took the dress off, slung it back on the hanger and fled the dressing room, leaving the dress inside, mumbling to both girls that I’d changed my mind and didn’t want it. Marina followed me outside in shocked disbelief, trying to convince me I needed to march right back in there and buy that dress.

I’d been too distraught to even wonder what Ivy might be doing.

Ivy joined us within moments, her expression serious and clutching a shopping bag. She thrust it toward me, her jaw set, her mouth thin.

“Don’t you dare refuse this. It’s my gift to you. For all the birthdays and Christmases you have coming up,” Ivy said.

I’d wanted to cry as I accepted the bag but held it together. Her kindness surprised me, especially from a woman I barely knew. My own mama wouldn’t look twice at me anymore since she was too busy out living her own life. I haven’t seen her since I graduated high school and she’d only come for the ceremony before she left again with her boyfriend. And my grandma would rather give me crap than a present.

It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me before, besides Matt repaying our bounced paychecks.

Now the dress is ready to be worn, sitting in my nearly empty closet. I can’t wait. I absolutely cannot wait to put it on and see what Matt does when he gets a gander of me.

Probably nothing. He’d probably say, “You look nice, Miss James,” and leave it at that.

My fist curls of its own volition, and I thump it on top of my desk, making everything sitting on the surface rattle. No. I refuse to accept another non-reaction from Matt. I know he’s my boss. I know I shouldn’t be doing anything like this. It’s risky, stupid, and I could potentially lose my job or at least ruin it forever.

I still want him. The consequences be damned. I want Matthew DeLuca.

And I’m starting to think I’ll do anything to make it happen.

Chapter Four

Bryn

“YOU WORK TOO hard.”

Matt glances up, his dark gaze meeting mine. Lines of exhaustion are around his eyes, his normally lush mouth turned into a slight frown. His dark brown hair is in complete, sexy disarray and his shirtsleeves are shoved up almost past his elbows, as if he’d done it impatiently.

Which he probably had, knowing him.

For the past two days, he’s been working constantly preparing for the grand reopening. Considering it’s already Wednesday, and we only have two days left to prepare, I’ve been here right along with him helping wherever I can.

He’s beautiful despite the air of tired frustration that hangs over him, and I realize in that moment that I’d love nothing more than to grab him. Slip in between his chair and the desk, settle on the edge and pull him into me by his tie. Kiss him until he forgot all about the winery and the grand reopening and the party and everything else.

Until all he could focus on was me, a more than willing woman with her tongue in his mouth and her hand in his hair, her other hand gripping his tie so he can’t get away. And he wouldn’t want to get away. He’d kiss me harder, grip my waist, push my skirt up and . . .

Yes. I want to kiss his troubles away. And he’d probably think I lost my mind if I even attempted it.

“I have to work hard,” he says with this rueful smile that doesn’t look real. No, it looks as tired as the rest of him. “Trying to make sure this all comes together properly, you know? We only have a few days left and it’s crunch time.”

That’s his new favorite phrase—crunch time. He’s been saying it since Monday, when he had a staff meeting and told everyone we needed to basically get our asses in gear and get this place in tip-top shape.

I’ve worked past six the last two evenings and tonight it’s almost seven. I’m starving but trying to ignore my growling stomach. I’m also wishing for my drab uniform of old because hey, dressing like you don’t care also means you dress comfortably.

Today I’m wearing a new black pencil skirt that makes it hard to take wide steps and a pretty, delicate white shirt that makes my boobs look huge, not that boss man has noticed. Oh, and I’m wearing the new damn shoes I’ve worn all week that I’ve somehow gotten used to—sort of.

My toes scream with joy every night when I slip the shoes off, and I might have Band-Aids on the back of my ankles, but I’m making them work. Matt’s appreciative looks every time his gaze drops to my feet for even the briefest moment make all the pain worth it.

Despite parading the new wardrobe in front of him for the last three days, it’s like he’s hardly noticed. I know Matt’s distracted, his brain completely preoccupied with this grand reopening party. It’s so important to him, for the winery to be successful, for him to do something other than play baseball. I think he’s afraid no one takes him seriously, and I totally get that.

But I’m dying for him to notice me. Really, really notice me. I’ve done just about everything I can to get him to see me, but it’s like he looks right past me.

Rather frustrating.

And I want him to like me for more than my looks too. I know he appreciates the work I do for him and admires “the way I handle things so efficiently”—this is a direct quote, one he said to me only yesterday. But what about me? Bryn James, the woman? I may be just some hick from Texas at the mere age of twenty-two who’s hardly lived, and I’m definitely not sophisticated like the women he probably prefers to date or screw or whatever, but damn it, I want a chance.

If I were bold and brave, I’d demand a chance.

I take care of the man, and he doesn’t even realize it. I make sure he eats. I make sure he goes home. I handle his schedule, knowing where he needs to be or what he needs to be doing at all times. I make sure all the little details that he might’ve missed are handled. I’m here for him always. Always.

And he doesn’t really care.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, my stomach grumbling yet again and reminding me that yes, indeed I certainly am.

He shrugs those impossibly broad shoulders. They look even broader when encased in starched white cotton. He’s still wearing a tie though it’s loosened around his neck, the first button undone, tempting me to unbutton his shirt even more and see what he’s hiding beneath the fabric.

Like I don’t know. I might’ve spent a few hours Googling Matt DeLuca. It was easy—the man has a ton of photos out there. Some of those pictures are mouthwateringly good because holy hell, the man’s body is perfection. He’s posed for a few magazines over the years wearing little, and I said a little prayer of thanks when I stumbled across those after I first started working for him.

I might’ve gone in search of those photos again last night. Staring and drooling and wondering what the heck I can do to garner this man’s attention. How much more obvious do I need to be?

He’d dressed to impress today because he met with reporters from a local news station for a video interview about the winery earlier this afternoon.

Matt most definitely impressed me. I love it when he wears suits or at least a dress shirt and tie, which is not often enough in my humble opinion.

“I’m kind of hungry, I guess,” he finally answers, his gaze locked on the computer screen as he taps away at the keyboard with his typical index-finger pecking. I have no idea what he’s working on, but it’s definitely holding his interest better than I am. “But I don’t have time to eat.”

“Want me to bring you something then?”

He looks at me once more, peering over the top of his monitor, his gaze narrowed, his expression skeptical. I’m sitting across from his desk, feeling a little rumpled, a lot tired and wishing I looked as perfectly sexy as he does. “You don’t need to do that,” he says carefully. “Maybe you should go on home, Miss James. It’s late. You’ve put in a long day.”

What, go home to an empty apartment and more Lean Cuisine? I don’t think so. “I don’t mind picking you up something to eat, Matt . . . er, Mr. DeLuca.” I try to keep it formal between us, and he does the same, but we both slip on occasion. There’s something a little fun about addressing him so properly. Makes my wicked thoughts of him all the more lurid. “I could call in an order from somewhere you like and have it here for you within thirty minutes.”

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure what I’d want.” He rubs his hand along his jaw. I can hear the rasp of stubble against his palm, and my knees literally go weak. I would love to know what that slightly rough face would feel like against mine, or even better—how it would feel between my thighs.

Thank goodness I’m sitting down, or I swear I’d collapse because my legs are so wobbly.

“I’ll take care of everything,” I say, my mind scrambling as I stand. “I’ll order some food and deliver it to you before I leave for the night.” I start to leave the office, wondering if he prefers Italian or Chinese when he says my name in that deep, delicious voice of his.

I stop and slowly turn to find him looking at me, his expression one of pure gratitude. “Thanks a lot for taking care of me these last few days. I know I’ve kept you far busier than you should be.”

Smiling, I try to ignore the mass of butterflies fluttering in my stomach at his words. “You’re welcome. And it’s my job, right? I’m just doing what I’m supposed to.”

“Not necessarily a part of your formal job description, but I suppose.” He smiles. “You should join me.” At my confused look he explains further. “For dinner.”

“Oh, I-I couldn’t.” I shake my head at the same exact moment my stomach decides to grumble loudly, and I rest my hand over my front, horribly embarrassed. I can feel my cheeks heat, and I’m tempted to duck and run.

But I stand my ground instead, trying to pretend it didn’t happen.

Soft laughter escapes him as he quirks an eyebrow at me. “Not hungry, huh?”

“Fine. I’m starving.” I roll my eyes. Are we flirting? It feels like it but . . . not. Ugh, he’s so confusing. “But I’m sure you don’t want to eat with me. We spend enough time together, don’t you think?”

“Do you want to eat with me?” he asks, his dying laughter replaced with this foreign gleam in his eyes. “I don’t mind if you don’t. Come on, Bryn. Let’s have dinner together at my desk. It’ll be exciting.” He laughs. “We can go over the caterer menu one more time. Exciting right?”

“All right,” I agree, trying my best to stomp down the giddy sensation that wants to take over but it’s so hard. It’s bubbling to the surface ready to burst out all over Matt. “Let me find a restaurant. What do you prefer, Italian or Chinese?”

“Italian, of course,” he says, and I’m thankful.

I prefer Italian too—especially the DeLuca variety.

“DAMN, THIS IS good,” Matt says as he eats another forkful of lobster ravioli. “And you said the restaurant is nearby?”

Enraptured with watching him eat, I nod silently, but realize he’s not even paying attention to me, so I answer, “Yes, they’re not too far from here. Little place that doesn’t look like much but is packed inside.”

So packed, I drew quite a few stares as I went to the register and purchased the food, waiting for the bag to be brought out. I could tell they weren’t tourists. They were probably wondering who the heck I was and not like I could announce it to everyone. I stood there, smiling shyly at everyone who was blatant enough to check me out.

This city, the entire area, has a very small town feel. I understood. Whenever a stranger showed up in Cactus, everyone went crazy wondering who they were. It set the gossips buzzing for days.

That’s what I’ve turned into. I’m the girl who sparks gossip and makes people wonder who the heck I am. Even when I was trying my best not to get any attention whatsoever, it still happened.

“What did you get?” Matt points his black plastic fork at me. His eyes are alight with interest.

We’re sitting at his desk just as he said, eating quietly and occasionally making conversation. These low sounds of complete male satisfaction leave him every once in a while, setting my blood on fire, but I try to ignore them. My dinner is delicious too, something I rarely indulge in because Italian food goes straight to my hips but who cares?

Tonight—not me.

“Mushroom ravioli,” I answer just before I take another bite of crusty, warm bread.

“Are you a vegetarian?” he asks.

“Please, I’m from Texas.” Oh crap. That was sort of a sarcastic and shitty thing to say. I need to watch my mouth.

“Really? I had no idea.” He looks at me, his gaze intense. “Tell me more.”

I shrug, wishing I’d never opened this can of worms. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Now I doubt that, Miss James,” he drawls softly. “We’re sharing a meal together so at the very least you could make polite conversation.”

He’s not going to let this go, I can tell. “Well, you asked for my boring life story so here it is. I grew up in Cactus, Texas, a small town with one stoplight. Wait, there’s another, so make it two.” I tap my fingers against my lips, trying to decide what I can and can’t tell him. Not the bad stuff, which there’s a lot of. No-good daddy, and a too-young mama who never stuck around much or seemed to care. Gruff, but lovable grandma who gave me lots of words of wisdom but wasn’t the best at showering me with affection.

This is probably why I seek out love in all the wrong places. My head is just flat-out screwed up.

“I was raised by my grandma,” I finally say. “My mom was real young and not around much.”