Page 28 of The Pucking Proposal

Her grin morphs into a surprised smile as her eyes soften. “Your talent, hard work, and willingness to throw your body in front of a bullet-like object help a little,” she concedes.

I hold up my finger and thumb an inch apart, grinning slightly. “A tiny bit.”

Chapter 13

Joy

Your place or mine?

I stare at the text from Dalton, debating. I’m playing with fire. My only saving grace will be to keep Dalton at arm’s distance. Or at least I hope that’s enough to save me.

FaceTime.

It’s not a question or an option. It’s a take it or leave it offer that I send knowing he’ll take it. He has to.

You okay?

No, I’m not. After hanging up last night, I was fine for approximately five minutes when there was a pure, quiet calm in my head. And then reality clicked in and I started freaking out. I contemplated calling Hope. If anyone can talk me off a ledge, it’s her, and I would like to get her take on the situation, but if Shep so much as looks at her sideways, he’ll know. Not because she’ll spill—she would never do that to me—but because her face is an open book.

But that’s not what I tell Dalton.

Yeah. FaceTime seems like a better decision than in-person.

I expect him to argue that point with some crude description of what might be “better” if we’re face-to-face, or try to convince me that this is no big deal, that we’re “fine” and “know what this is” like he said last night. Hell, maybe I want him to talk me into this so that when it all goes awry, I can blame him, which is shitty, but closer to the truth than I’d like to admit.

Bad decisions make good stories.

God, he’s like a walking, talking, testosterone-fueled version of me. I swear I’ve used a similar line on Hope to get her to do stupid shit with me. But while what he said might be true, bad decisions can also ruin everything. I don’t think either of us should take that chance.

We need to be smart.

All right.

I can almost hear him sighing when he typed that.

So that’s what we do over the next couple of weeks—stick with phone call peekaboos where we touch ourselves because it’s the safer, smarter option that still gets us both what we desperately want.

And if it was only that, maybe I wouldn’t feel like things are so risky. But it’s not only a quick jack-off for luck on the eve of his games.We’ve drifted into something more, something I can’t—and won’t—put a name to. Mostly because I don’t know what to call it.

We talk every night, whether Dalton is in town or out, and whether there’s a game or not. We talk about our days, our thoughts, our lives. And while it’s not like we’re curing cancer, or discussing world peace, or anything deep, those little conversations are where the danger is. But even so, I can’t help curling up in bed or on the couch at the end of every long day to wait for his call.

At this point, I don’t know if it’s him, the daily orgasms, or the combination of the two that has me in such a great mood.

The weekend before Thanksgiving is a big deal in Maple Creek. Our annual Fall Festival brings tourists from the whole tristate area to our little town to participate in pumpkin carving contests, apple cider drinking, hayrides, and more. For a lot of families, it’s the beginning of their holiday season, so Maple Creek does a good job of keeping traditions alive so that they can have those memories from generation to generation.

One of the most anticipated festivities is the Saturday night bonfire. It’s been going on for decades. I know I’ve seen pictures of the Maple Creek Fall Bonfire going all the way back to the fifties.

“This is so exciting!” Rayleigh squeals, gripping my hand tightly in hers as she leans into my side. “What time do they light it?”

“About thirty minutes after dusk,” I tell her for the third time since picking her up.

I can’t help but smile at Rayleigh’s enthusiasm for not only the festival, but life in general. She’s never met a sunrise she wasn’t grateful for and enthusiastic about making the most of.

She’s one of my newest and best friends. What started as me hiring her as a Pilates personal trainer a year ago turned into coffee chats, mani-pedi dates, and shopping for excessive amounts of yoga pants—mostlyfor her because she is obsessed with having a full rainbow spectrum of matching outfits since they’re her “work uniforms” and she dresses each morning based on what color’s vibe she’s feeling for the day.

Today is apparently a khaki-feeling day because she’s wearing tan leather-look leggings, a long cream-colored sweater with a white collared shirt peeking out at the neckline and hem, and knee-high brown boots. Her brunette hair is curled to perfection and accented with a chiffon bow. She looks chic as hell, and knowing she would, I dressed cute, too, in dark flared jeans, a baby-pink sweater that’s so soft I’ll have to fight to keep from petting myself, and cowboy boots. Thankfully, the sun is bright and high in the sky, keeping the afternoon warm so we don’t need coats yet. And tonight, if the bonfire and dancing don’t keep us toasty enough, I brought blankets we can wrap up in.

“I’m surprised you didn’t come last year,” I tell her as I scan the crowd of people, seeing some faces I know and lots I don’t.

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