Page 61 of Holding The Reins

I hate acting like the saint who’s watching out for CeCe when I’m really the mother fucker who can’t stop thinking about devouring her with no future plans other than that. One thing is certain—I would never let her go back to Andrew and his fucked-up house of horrors. But would she want to go back just because she wants it all and he would promise to offer it to her? I swallow down the last of my blueberry muffin and refocus.

This is why it’s best if we stick to the plan. Stick to the plan. Stay friends, don’t let anything get awkward. I repeat this mantra over and over.

When we’re finished with our coffee break, I leave Wade, toting the auction package so I can bring it to the office to show CeCe and start to head home. Just as I settle for sticking to the plan, her name pops up on my phone and like the budding addict I am, I pull over to give her my attention.

Rae

It’s a good thing you left when you did. I saved you no hot water and my friends were about to send out a search party for me.

It’s a good thing they didn’t come looking for you an hour ago.

Rae

Ginger has been telling me to save a horse, ride a cowboy for years, She’d probably be proud.

I’m not a cowboy.

Rae

I think a part-time cowboy counts.

I start typing several different things before deleting them.

I had fun last night.

Lame.

That was the most incredible sex I’ve ever had.

Even more lame.

You look so beautiful in the morning.

Sappy, rom-com actor lame.

What’s an appropriate response for my hot accountant slash best friend’s little sister who I can’t get out of my head and want to bury myself inside every minute of every day? I think for a minute and decide to keep it light.

I’m stopping at Spicer’s, did you eat after I left? I can bring you breakfast.

Rae

I think it’s the least you can do after abusing my vagina then leaving without a trace into the morning fog.

I chuckle and scrub my face with my hand in my parked truck. If she only knew the things that were running through my mind, she’d know I’d have stayed. And not just for the morning. I’m starting to think I’d stay with CeCe as long as she let me.

Apologies to your pussy. I will grovel before her with Danishes and croissants.

Rae

She says thank you, that’s a start, and hurry up, I’m hungry. I’ll be at the office by nine.

I’ll meet you there.

I turn onto my driveway ten miles from the ranch and breathe a heavy breath of relief. This is my safe space. My haven. The gravel drive is lined with white fencing and it is almost a half mile long. Maple trees hide the small cabin house until it is right in front of you. I have eight acres here and I love every inch. Some of my friends from my NHL days have massive homes that showcase their millions. I just need this. My simple cabin and some land.

I climb the steps to the wide, wrap around front porch, my four a.m coffee spot, the space I seek after 3:13 comes and I can’t fall back asleep, where I watch the sun wake and listen to the birds.

The house is simple but has every modern amenity. It worked out perfectly that it was for sale when I was making my plan to come home. I viewed it the day before Wyatt died and I know he would’ve loved it. The owner was going into a nursing home and had lived here since the fifties. He had cared for it but never updated it. So I had it renovated before I retired at the same time I renovated the arena. The cabin walls remain but the kitchen is updated now with new walnut cabinets, stainless steel appliances and a large butcher block kitchen island. My favorite room in the house is a cozy family room off the kitchen with a floor to ceiling original cobblestone fireplace that still burns real wood. The massive tinted windows in that room look out over the fresh water creek that runs behind it. It is deep enough to hold my twenty-five-foot dock and my little skiff fishing boat and clean enough to swim in in the summer. The whole house is crisp creams, wood and wrought iron—rustic and calming. It’s all I ever need or want. I hop in the shower quickly, breathing in CeCe’s strawberry scent that still clings to my skin one last time, and change into jeans and a clean, white Henley before heading right back out the door to Spicer’s. I barely get out of my driveway before Shania Twain’s “Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?” begins to play through my sound system. I drive along and sing every damn word with the world’s dopiest grin on my face remembering CeCe dancing to this at the pub on Sunday night.

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