Page 17 of Wannabe in Wyoming
“Are you kidding me? Of course, I’m serious. There’s nothing I want more than to get to know you better. To be, well, your man, your boyfriend, whatever term you’re comfortable with. I know it’s sudden, and we haven’t actually met yet, but I just . . . you’re special, Willow. I don’t know how I know that, I just do, and I’m not willing to let you go without finding out what this thing between us can be.”
Her breath caught in her lungs. Was he for real? Gone was his hesitation—now he seemed sure of himself and of her . . . of them. “Your confidence is a huge turn on.” She slapped her free hand over her mouth, shocked she’d said the words she’d been thinking out loud.
He groaned, long and deep. “Wannabe, you can’t say things like to me when I’m so far away. You trying to torture me? Do you know how long I’ve been thinking about being with you, in every way?”
Grinning, even as she felt her face heat, she traced an invisible figure eight with her finger on the countertop several times, wishing it was his bare chest. “Probably as long as I have been wondering the same thing. So, when can you get those few days off?”
“Next Saturday, I start a week of leave. Does this mean you want me to come see you? For real?”
“For reals.”
“Awesome! You’ve just made the happiest man on base.”
Laughing, she got comfortable at the island, propping her feet up and settling in. “You’re kind of a dork, aren’t you?”
* * *
Nathan couldn’t get enoughof the sound of Willow’s voice. His boring day, full of meetings necessary for him to process out of the Army, had taken a turn for the better.
“Maybe I’m a bit of a dork, but you agreed to go out with me, so what does that say about you?”
“That I have good taste in men.”
Barking out a laugh, he ignored his growling stomach. He could switch the call over to his truck’s Bluetooth and drive home, but he didn’t want to stop talking to her even for the few seconds that would take. He’d spent his deployment counting down the days until he could come home to actually talk to Willow, and now he was counting down the days until he got to see her.
Their conversation continued, neither of them wanting to stop talking now that they’d begun. He loved the sound of her voice and laughter. She told him about her day, including the run-in with her ex. As angry as he was about that, he was delighted she’d pulled her shotgun on the fucker. He almost hoped that rat bastard would show up while he was there. He’d take great pleasure in explaining, in no uncertain terms, that Willow was taken and protected by a man capable of killing him with his bare hands. A man who would, in fact, take joy in the act. He didn’t tell Willow that, of course. He didn’t want her to think he was a bloodthirsty animal. His feelings for her seemed to bring a protective streak to the forefront.
After their call ended, Nathan was still reeling. Putting his car in gear, he headed right for a drive-thru for dinner, not wanting to take more time than necessary to feed himself. He needed to get home and look at flights. He was going to see his woman and hopefully claim her in every way.
Chapter Thirteen
Willow thoughtnothing could pierce the ecstatic mood she’d been in since her phone call with Nathan yesterday, but someone decided to prove her wrong. She still couldn’t believe he was coming to visit in just six days. They’d ended up talking on the phone for over an hour before he finally confessed he was starving and had to eat something to quiet his growling stomach. It’d been obvious he’d been as reluctant to end the call as she’d been.
She’d stayed up late last night, making a list of everything she needed to do to prepare for his visit. There were still things she had to do around the house, like paint the walls in one of the spare bedrooms and buy a full-size bed, a nightstand, and a lamp to set up for him, at the very least. She hoped Nathan wouldn’t mind her putting him in there—even though she felt like she’d known him forever, the truth was they still had so much to learn about each other. Yes, she’d fantasized about sleeping with him often, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready to actually do it. And what if the chemistry they seemed to have was all in their heads, and once he got there, they found out they weren’t really attracted to each other?
When she’d woken up that morning, she decided to go into town, get some paint from the hardware store, and stop into Shear Genius hair salon to see if she could get a trim. Ginger Moore, Cody’s sister, who Willow had met at the drunken Jenga night, had told her she worked there and to come in anytime and she would take care of her. Hopefully, she was working today, because she didn’t want to deal with Martha Watkins who’d already made her disdain of the Rock’s newest resident known.
The last time Willow had gotten a haircut was about five months ago in Philly, and she really needed to get rid of the dead ends at the very least. The last of her pink tips would be cut off, but that was okay. It was time for something new anyway, and she wanted to look nice when Nathan got there.
When she pulled the door to the little shop open, a little clapper bell tinkled, announcing her presence. It was apparent she’d interrupted a hen-house gossip session because the two stylists, Ginger and Martha, and three customers immediately shut their traps and turned their attention to the newcomer. Willow felt like a side-show freak as one much older woman sitting in Ginger’s chair regarded her, her lip curling in distaste as her eyes tracked along Willow’s tattoos. No doubt also noting her pierced nose.
“Hey, Willow! Did you have an appointment I forgot about?” Ginger asked after turning off the hair dryer she was using on the woman.
“Hi, Ginger, I didn’t make an appointment—sorry. I just need a quick trim and was hoping you could squeeze me in.” Willow really liked Ginger, who was about five years younger than her. They’d hit it off immediately at Jenga night, bonding over a love for rock bands, body art, and bright hair dye. Ginger kept her ink hidden from most people—it was on her hip—and had a beautiful electric-blue tint in her dark-brown hair. Surprisingly, none of the other women in the place seemed to have had a problem with her choice of color, so it must be Willow’s hot pink they had an aversion to. Or maybe it had nothing to do with her hair at all and what they had an aversion to was her. “If it’s not too much trouble. I can always come back another day.”
“It’s no problem at all. I’ll get you fixed up just as soon as I’m done with Mrs. Jenkins here.” Ginger patted the shoulder of the gray-haired, seventy-something-year-old woman in front of her. “Have a seat for a few minutes, and I’ll be right with you.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” She took a seat near the window where a few chairs were lined up. There was a stack of magazines on a small table beside her. Picking one up, she flipped through it absentmindedly while trying to ignore the conversation around her.
“Kids these days have no respect. Did you hear about what a group of those football players did?” Mrs. Jenkins nasally voice cut through the light chatter that’d started again like a knife through butter. “They took a steer onto the football field, painted it red, and took turns trying to ride it. That animal tore up the turf and ruined the field! In my day, that sort of thing was punished severely. Not this suspension nonsense. Kids don’twantto be at school. So how is giving them what they want a punishment?”
“It is a shame,” Ginger agreed. Her pacifying tone and expression told Willow she’d clearly had this conversation, or ones similar to it, with the older woman before and was simply humoring her.
“Jesus is what they need. Just like folks who choose to mark up their bodies with filth and fill it full of holes the good Lord didn’t put there.” Mrs. Jenkins cut her eyes to Willow, not hiding her contempt.
Ginger met Willow’s gaze over the older woman’s head, wincing in sympathy. “Now, Mrs. Jenkins, everyone has the right to make choices with their own bodies. It’s not for us to judge.” Willow understood the stylist’s diplomatic response to a paying customer, and she barely bit back a scathing retort herself.
Mrs. Jenkins wasn’t done with her preaching yet, however. “More church is what this world needs. Not rock music and those disgusting, shameful displays young folk call dancing. The world would be a better place if there were more bibles in hands and knees on the floor in prayer.”
