we’re here, though the scenery is pretty and my finger does itch to take a few pictures of those cows who are now mooing at the interruption of their afternoon dip.
“A spring-fed pond,” Bobby corrects, emphasizing the spring-fed part. “That means it’s clean enough to swim in.” He smiles and reaches into the back seat, pulling up my camera bag and handing it to me carefully. “I grabbed you a suit, and yes, that means I went through your dresser drawers. If you’re mad, get over it now or I’ll have to start calling you Hank.”
The message is loud and clear. He’s doing something nice for me, offering a distraction from the disaster today has been, and I shouldn’t argue about it like my stubborn uncle.
When Bobby had stopped at my little cabin and told me to stay put while he grabbed something, I’d given in easily. He’d come out with my camera bag, and I’d figured we were doing the wildflower pictures at the cemetery today.
But this might be better. It might be a lot better. Even if the worry about Unc is still sharp in my belly.
I mime zipping my lip.
“Good girl. I’ll step out so you can change, and I’ll meet you over there.” He points to a spot on the bank by a big flat rock.
He opens his door and grabs a moving blanket out of the back, shaking it out as he goes. I’m dumbstruck as I watch him stride toward the water and spread the blanket out. He glances back at me, and though the sun glints off the windshield, I feel like he knows I’m watching him.
He reaches behind his neck, pulling his T-shirt over his head in one swoop.
“Oh, my God,” I mutter to nobody.
Bobby is thick and muscled, tanned with a slight line along his arms that says he must work with his shirt off at least sometimes. A dusting of dark hair covers his chest, pulling together into a thin line that disappears into his jeans. Which is exactly where his hands are now, undoing the button and zipper. He leaves them sagging open to reach down and pull his boots and socks off. Staring directly at the truck, or at me—I’m not sure which—he pushes his jeans over his ass and down his thighs.
The man has no shame. But he has zero reason to. Standing in just black boxer briefs, he looks like hot sex and wicked sin.
And mine.
There’s a hunger deep inside me that’s thrilled this man wants me and wants me to want him.
There’s an even bigger thrill that he doesn’t want casual and throw-away but is being remarkably and unusually clear in his desire for something deeper and more meaningful.
I feel like I won the lottery with him. Not just any old lottery, either, but the Powerball. And against all my usual instincts to share and take care of others, I want to revel in him, keeping him all to myself like a stingy bitch.
He winks at me and takes off, running barefoot through the dirt toward the water. He splashes in up to his thighs then dives under the surface expertly, coming up further out with a whip of his hair that sends water droplets flying. The cows moo their displeasure, but Bobby calls out, “Come on, Willow! Get in with me!”
Oh, I’m in. I’m in deep, way over my head and treading water.
I awkwardly maneuver around in the truck to change out of my shorts and T-shirt and into the bikini Bobby tucked into my camera bag. I own two suits, and of course, he brought the smaller of the two. It’s basically four triangles, one for each boob, one for my front, and one for my butt, all held together with strings that tie on my hips and at the center of my back. I make sure everything’s tucked in appropriately and send a quick prayer of thanks that I had the foresight to shave my bikini area so it doesn’t look like a Sasquatch bush escaping from behind the black fabric. I slip my tennis shoes back on but leave them untied so I can kick them off on the blanket, along with my glasses.
My walk to the water is nowhere near as confident as Bobby’s swaggered one, but he watches me approach all the same. His eyes follow my every move, roaming and tracing my curves as I get closer. I get the sense that he’s memorizing me.