Roots and Wings (City Limits #1)(21)

“You fish a lot then, huh?”

“When I can. I do a lot in the summer when I’m out here by myself. It’s calming. I like the game of it. What can I do to make them want my line? You know? I think that’s why I make lures and flies. They’re both relaxing.”

“I think I need a relaxing hobby.”

“I saw some clubs in your garage. You golf?” I asked as I turned on a lamp in the living room and walked over to one of the windows on the far side to get a breeze moving through the cabin. Since I used mine a little more than most it never got that musty smell, but it always smelled better with fresh air in it.

“I did. I mean, I do. Dr. Carver said there was a small course here?”

“Yeah, it’s actually pretty nice, I think. We get a lot of people from around the area for tournaments and stuff. There’s a nice clubhouse and restaurant out there. I don’t go out very often. Special occasions. Weddings. Stuff like that.”

I walked over to the bathroom and flipped the switch. “Excuse me. Make yourself at home. Poke around.”

When I saw myself in the mirror, I was pleasantly surprised I didn’t look as bad as I’d imagined. I opened a drawer where I had a few things and ran a comb through my hair. I’d had it up in a ponytail, so it was going back up because I had that lovely ring that the holder left, but at least it would look nicer. I rummaged a little more and found a tube of mascara and threw a coat on my lashes, pinched my cheeks. Then I debated brushing my teeth, but I hated the way toothpaste made beer taste, so instead I swished a little mouthwash and water in there. I applied some Chapstick, and although I wasn’t a supermodel, and I never would be, I decided it was a significant improvement.

I quickly peed and washed my hands, then rubbed some sweet smelling lotion on my arms, noting that I wouldn’t be catching anything if I touched my line after that, but I didn’t really give a shit either—if he liked it.

I didn’t want to smell fishy. And even though I hadn’t been keeping any of my catches, I had in fact touched a few. Fish and romance weren’t really a match made in heaven.

I rubbed the jasmine lotion in. Then added a little smear to my neck, and, even though I knew nobody would ever reap the benefit of it, I rubbed some through my cleavage.

I had to be prepared for anything. You know, like me forgetting my patience and throwing myself at him like a wanton whore.

Although what I’d changed was subtle, the look he gave me when I came out of the bathroom was not.

“O’Fallon, you look pretty tonight,” he said, almost like he hadn’t even thought about the words. Like they just fell out. And I had to admit he looked pretty damn good too, standing there in my cabin.

I hadn’t been looking for compliments, but there I was smack dab in the middle of one—and I wasn’t used to it at all. Nobody called me pretty except my dad, but he was my dad.

Hearing I looked pretty from Vaughn’s mouth was something completely different.

Different in how I reacted, which was to nervously look around and pretend like he hadn’t knocked the wind out of me.

Different in how I felt. I almost believed him, and I would have, had I not just seen myself.

But, mostly, different in how I didn’t know how to respond. I had no sassy comeback.

I’d been told I was hot before, in a bar, by drunk guys who were looking for a little companionship. And, to be honest, when I actually went to the bar, I was also looking for companionship.

Girls get horny, too.

Girls want intimacy and closeness, too.

And sometimes the quickest relief for that longing was a roll in the sheets with someone just passing through, or someone from out of town.

I made sure to never get with anyone in town because I knew it would spread like wildfire, and I didn’t want my dad hearing about it over coffee with the town’s men.

I didn’t sleep around a lot, but every now and again over the years, I found myself over or under one in a bed. Usually, the bed in this cabin.

I nervously tucked my head; the feeling of his appraisal was unlike other men giving me attention.

“Thanks,” I think I mumbled.

He took a few steps closer to me, and my body was screaming get out of here and jump him at the same time.

Not knowing what to do with myself, I just froze—which was totally not like me.

I’m Mutt, for f*ck’s sake.

He stepped up to me and I could smell his cologne, or deodorant—hell, I wasn’t sure—but whatever it was, it added volume to my lungs and I wished I could inhale it forever.

“The other night,” he began softly, and then he tenderly took ahold of the hand I had by my side, “I had a lot of fun.”

“I did, too.” I couldn’t help myself from staring right into his eyes. They looked back and forth in mine, like he was testing the waters.

“The water is fine. Come on in,” I heard some wanton whore say in the back of my head.

“The ice cream was good,” I added.

“Yeah, it was, but more than that I’d like to get to know you more. Spend time with you. And not just because you helped me with my house, and have been so nice, but because I’m attracted to you.”

And there went my stomach.

Who says things like that? Do men really say that kind of thing outside of Wynne? Because how do women walk around with clean underwear knowing there are real live men wandering around out there talking like that?