Page 24 of Alive and Wells

“You do nothing.”Thanks. Truly helpful.

An older, grey-haired gentleman approaches us as Austin swings Odessa back down to the ground. “Austin, how are ya? Got you a few good ones today.”

Austin nods. “Jackson’s out back taking a look. Thanks, Rick.”

The man’s wrinkled, sun-damaged face shifts to me. “And I see we have a newcomer. First time?”

“I’m Cecily. Excited first timer.” I reach out and shake the man’s large, calloused hand.

“Treat her like a small child, Rick. None of her accidental bids count,” Austin says, eliciting a chuckle from the older man.

“Well, best get yourselves a good spot. And get this little lady,”—he flicks the brim of Odessa’s pink cowboy hat—“a milkshake. Tell ’em it’s on me.”

Kate and I settle into our seats, and I look around at the unfamiliar faces slowly filtering into the room. Nearly everyone comes over to talk to Austin and, while he’s still a man of few words, he’s shockingly friendly. Terrifyingly so. I’m captivated by how easily he interacts with other ranchers, although I can’t follow most of what they’re talking about. It’s not until Odessa shouts at him about a milkshake, interrupting my stupor, that I realize how intensely I’ve been staring.

They return a short while later with a milkshake and Jackson in tow. The room’s filling up and Rick, who turns out to be the auctioneer, takes a seat on the opposite side of the sale pen. His presence forces a hush across the room and Austin settles in next to me on the hard bench seating.

As anticipated, it feels like I’ve contracted fleas within the first five minutes. I swear, not a single part of my body has ever prickled and itched as much as it does now. Trying to take my mind off it, I look around the room, and quietly assess the assortment of men and women sitting here. Just as I question whether Austin might’ve been exaggerating about tiny movements counting as bids, I watch a man in his seventies touch the side of his nose and purchase five calves.

Shit.

Unrelenting tickles, like tiny bugs crawling under my clothes, refuse to leave me alone. The more I think about how I shouldn’t be itchy, the worse it becomes.Fuck it.I’m cautiously itching my thigh when I feel Austin’s knee knock against mine. Electricity spiders out from the spot where our legs are touching, and my heart skips a beat. I look over to see his annoyed glare.

“Stop scratching,” he mouths.

“I can’t. I’m so itchy.” Talking about it makes the sensation more intense, and I scratch harder. It’s not like anybody can see my hand moving when it’s down low, right? Surely the large farmer in front of me is blocking most of my body from view.

“Jesus Christ.” His hand quickly grabs mine and squeezes my fingers together painfully. I jolt in my seat, but he doesn’t ease up.

The buzzing under my skin stops as my focus shifts entirely to his hand on mine. To the contrast between my delicate fingers and his calloused, work-worn hands. Then back to his knee, which is still resting against mine. My eyes drag up the length of his thigh until I get to the spot that makes my cheeks flush and my throat clench. An extremely inappropriate daydream about unbuckling his belt, and seeing what he looks like under those Wranglers, creates an insatiable neediness between my legs. I can’t help wondering what his rough fingertips might feel like elsewhere on my body.

His grip loosens ever so slightly, allowing for his fingers to interlace mine, and now he’s simply holding my hand.Austin Wells is holding my hand.If I wanted to, I could easily slip from his grasp, and continue toeing the line with my covert scratching. But I don’t want to.

We sit in silence as Jackson bids on, and wins, a massive black bull. Letting heat build between our palms. Pretending like the only reason we’re sitting this way is to prevent me from accidentally purchasing an animal. That doesn’t explain why neither of us has moved our knees.

When his thumb starts to draw small shapes on the back of my hand, I’m filled with butterflies. They’re travelling from my chest down to the hot space between my legs. My stomach flips at the thought of his thumb making the same movement in a very different place. It’s a wanting I haven’t felt in years, and I fight hard to repress the image before it turns into a needy whimper.

The instant the final auction ends, he drops my hand like it’s red-hot metal. I naïvely thought that he’d been feeling the same sparks I had. But it’s never been more clear to me that I’m simply delusional.

The next morning, Odessa stands up on her chair at the dining table, shimmying while Beryl cranksShe’s In Love With The Boyon the Bluetooth speaker. With Kate gone for her doctor’s appointment, it’s a bit of a free-for-all this morning. Odessa even got chocolate chips and whipped cream on her pancakes, which explains the hyperactive dance moves. “I love this song,” she shouts over the music.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself, kid,” Austin snarks without looking up from his newspaper. “And get better taste in music.”

Odessa sticks her tongue out at him, but climbs off the chair and runs over to me, grabbing my hands to spin in a circle. I have to duck in close to keep from letting her hit the counter when she throws her head back with a sweet giggle.

“Excuse me, don’t you dare speak ill about Miss Yearwood.” Beryl flicks his arm with a tea towel as she wipes the surrounding table.

“It’s not his fault that he got the short end of the stick… y’know, when it comes to brains.” I twirl Odessa under my arm like she’s a princess at a fairy-tale ball. “Hold on, I’ve got a song he might like better.”

I let go of Odessa’s hand and grab my phone. Pulling up the song I have in mind, I lean my elbow on the counter. Watching Austin, I slowly turn up the volume dial through the opening chords until he looks up from the paper.

“Should’ve Been A Cowboy? That’s the best you could come up with?” he asks, cocking a brow.

“Okay, okay. I’ll find something more you. Give me a second.” I drum my fingertips on the counter while I think. Odessa’s already grown bored and moved on—gone outside to chase after the barn cats, most likely. “Hrm, maybe some Waylon and Willie instead? If you’re willing to admit your mama did, in fact, let you grow up to be a cowboy? Something about not being easy to love, always alone… Yeah, those lyrics do fit better.”

I’m teasing, but it’s clear I’ve gone too far because a deep trench builds between his eyebrows, and he’s gone. Out of the house before I’ve even had the chance to queue up the song.

“Shit. I struck a nerve, didn’t I?” Grimacing, I turn to Beryl.

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