Page 58 of Please, Sir

He brings his plate back to the table, and sits down, draping a napkin over his lap. “I did. I bought the land and knew I wanted to build it myself. At that time, it was about keeping costs low. Turner Saddlery still hadn’t gotten its legs fully, and I was trying to establish trust and build rapport with Bluebell. Building it myself meant a lot of work, but getting what I couldn’t afford to get had I hired a crew.”

I nod, stabbing the tines of my fork into a tender piece of meat, the crisp bark exterior burned to perfection. It melts in my mouth, and he watches me, from my lips to my jaw, to the slide of food going down my throat. “How is it?”

I bring the wine glass to my lips. “Delicious.”

He takes a bite too, nodding in approval.

“So you’re from Bluebell, but it took time for people to trust your saddlery. That’s interesting to me,” I admit, because small towns' loyalty always works so strangely.

“Well, riding and barrel racing are big here, and you can’t do either of those things without the right gear. Small towns aren’t big on going to shows and buying from large vendors. I knew I had an in by only selling local, and being from Bluebell. But that wasn’t enough. I had to prove to them I could do anything they wanted, all while remembering why they wanted it and why it was important.” He stabs another bite of meat, this time adding potato, and green beans, too. “You have to be able to tell David Morgan that the saddle for his granddaughter, Morgan May, who likes riding her Appaloosa, Rocky Road, is better suited to her Tenneesee Walking Horse, Shamrock.” He chews, and I take another bite. The way our eyes come together in silence without tension or feeling like the room is bloated with unspoken things feels so good. It feels like I could exist with this man inthe quiet hours of morning, before the sun is all the way up and the coffee is still dripping slowly into the pot. I could exist with him in the bleachers, my arm linked with his as we cheer on Jo Jo, strutting across the stage with her diploma in hand.

It rattles me a little how easily I see myself fitting into his life, their lives. “Geeze,” I breathe, my palms clammy. Heat curls in my chest, spreading to my arms, burning the tips of my fingers—knowing that Jake is reliable for everyone in his life–he earned them. “They made you earn them.”

He nods. “They did, but that’s how it should be.” He sips his wine, which urges me to do the same. “Things worth having should be earned.” His eyes slowly traverse the terrain of my almost nude body, and it makes my lips lift on the ends. “Take off your bra.” Jake’s voice rumbles and I swear the floor rocks beneath me.

I’m a little shocked, only because I wasn’t expecting that. But I reach behind and unclasp myself, setting the strapless bra on the table.

“Yes, sir.” My nipples hard as his eyes sink to my chest, studying every inch of my bare breasts.

He drops his head to the side with a contemplative hum, his swollen shoulders lifting as he steeples his hands beneath his chin. Heat spreads over the surface of my skin, and I can’t escape the burning feeling I get when he looks at me that way. “Why were you upset on the porch?”

I forget I’m topless as embarrassment blooms in my cheeks. “I’m pretty embarrassed that I showed up begging for you like that.” I stare at my plate, avoiding his eyes.

“What happened?” he asks softly before he drops his voice to nothing more than a husky whisper, adding, “Don’t be embarrassed. You begging for me makes me feel… needed. Desired.” His sigh is so weighty as he rakes a hand up the back of his head, ruffling his fingers through his shiny, wild hair. “Jesus. I can’t believe I admitted that.”

“Why?” I ask. “Everyone wants to feel needed and desired.”

His eyes lift from his wine glass, settling on mine with a dark intensity that sets my insides on fire. “I bet you feel needed and desired all the time. A million students around you, cheerleaders.” He studies me, drumming lean, strong fingers against the table as I sip my wine, pulse leaping. “Men. You’re so goddamn gorgeous, I bet you have a slew of men begging for you.”

His words nearly steal my breath. I replace the wine glass on the table, empty. The Merlot buzzes in my veins, making me just fuzzy enough to be carelessly bold. “I’ve never felt desired or needed until you followed me down Mills Road in your truck and insisted on giving me a ride.” I leave out the part where we went for each other's bodies like feral teenagers.

“Why were you upset when you got here?” he asks again. He takes another bite and so do I, and it gives me a few seconds to think about my answer. Bringing up your ex on a date is the best way not to get a second date, but because Jake already knows of Michael, it seems pointless and even damaging to avoid the truth.

“Michael called me when I was driving over and it just upset me because I blocked him, and he wormed around the block.” Without additional context, I sound dramatic.

Jake's eyes narrow, and frustration bunches his forehead. “What did he want?”

I take my last bite of food, and realize that this is the first time other than with Leah that I’ve ever felt safe and comfortable talking about Michael. It’s not like I want to talk about Michael, but Jake’s presence diffuses the chaos inside me,making me feel like if I could talk about him, I’d be safe to do so. Maybe even understood. I wonder if this is what healthy relationships are, being with someone who genuinely makes you feel safe.

“Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve made it clear to him and my parents that we’re done.”

Jake collects our plates, and I watch him working in the kitchen, rinsing dishes and loading them. “What makes your parents so tied to this guy?”

I sigh. “Well, my parents and his parents are friends. His parents are kind of, I don’t know,small town somebodiesback in Willowdale. The town hall is in their name due to their donation, and everyone knows them.”

Jake blinks.

“My parents really care about what people think about them and they really, really want to stay in the good graces of Michael’s parents.” I cup my hand to my mouth. “I’m sorry I said his name at all, much less more than once. This is a date,” I shake my head, angry with myself for being this girl. The one who talks about her ex on a date. “I’m sorry.”

“I asked,” Jake says, “because I want to know. So please, finish explaining.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, a little surprised to discover that Jake is interested. “Well, Michael and I were friends our entire lives. We started dating in high school and my parents were like, ecstatic. They started planning these family picnics between the Rivers and the Rhodes, and, I don’t know. At the time I thought they were just super supportive of my first relationship. But now I know it’s because they wanted to get close to the Rhodes, for social reasons.”

“For shallow reasons,” Jake amends.

I finger-gun him. “Bingo. Because the Rhodes, the more I got to know them, were actually shitheads of the worst kind.Rude to wait staff, talked over people, always played the devil’s advocate in any meaningful conversations, never picked up the tab at group dinners, and in general, were just complete turds.”

“Turds?”

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