He studied me and his eyes dimmed, grew remote and guarded. Inexplicably, my stomach flipped, and I felt oddly remorseful.
After a protracted moment, Duane swallowed. His voice was thick and gravelly when he finally said, “Sure thing, Princess.” Then he turned away from me toward some unseen exit, his stride unhurried, languid and confident, and sexy as hell.
I hesitated for a single second, then followed reluctantly. I couldn’t help but admire his backside—the nice curve of his bottom—the width of his strong shoulders, how is waist tapered at his hips, and how he walked.
I kept thinking about his heavenly kisses, his divine, rough hands on my body, and his hot mouth on my skin. I pushed those thoughts away, but they were replaced with the memory of how great he’d felt in my hands—long and smooth and hard and thick—and how close I’d come to having him inside me. I bit my lip to stifle a pitiful groan, feeling out of breath and dizzy from the mere possibility.
Despite how I loathed him, I knew now that riding Duane would not be like anything I’d ever experienced. He was no Shetland pony. He was a stallion. And I despised myself a little for still wanting him. I was all mixed up.
And, worst of all, I would have to live my life trying to suppress the memory of Duane Winston doing fantastic things to my nipples.
***
Cletus Winston took a step back from my truck and scratched his beard. He looked to me, where I hovered anxiously by my open driver’s side door, and said, “Catastrophic engine failure.”
I blinked at him. “What?”
“Catastrophic engine failure. You have it.”
Feeling abruptly winded, I croaked, “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not good. It’s bad,” he said simply.
I shifted from foot to foot, trying to keep my teeth from chattering. Now ten o’clock and bitterly cold outside, I was still dressed as sexy Gandalf. I was sure my nipples were as hard as frozen peas and gave my chest a lovely headlight effect. To Cletus’s credit, he didn’t appear to be interested in my boobtacular headlights.
“What can I do?” I asked, grimacing at the small, desperate quality of my voice. The evening’s events were catching up with me.
After Duane had led me outside from a hidden exit behind the stage, I’d taken off without looking back and re-entered the community center from the front door. Immediately, my brother and father saw me and proceeded to throw disapproving glares at my skimpy costume.
I welcomed the distraction because every part of me missed the feeling of Duane’s hands and mouth. All evening I shivered, but it wasn’t from cold. I tried my best to ignore it. I was unsettled.
I’d effectively put off Claire’s pointed questions. I’d excelled at chit chat with my students' parents—despite my ironic costume choice—and I’d successfully avoided seeing both Duane and Beau. Granted, based on what Beau had said about leaving for Bandit Lake, they were probably long gone from the community center well before I tried to leave. Duane was probably off with my cousin Tina, giving her his hot looks and kisses…
Ugh!
I shook myself out of my weird musings about Duane—who I most certainly did not care about—and tried to focus on something else, anything else.
I’d even sat still long enough to listen to Cletus Winston play his banjo solo in one of the music rooms during an oddly charming folk rendition of Michael Jackson’s Thriller.
But I was tired, and my head was muddled, and I was tired of my head being muddled, and my monster truck wouldn’t start. Thankfully, just as I was about give up hope, Cletus was walking by my truck with his banjo case tucked under his arm.
He recognized me from my perch, and stopped. Without asking any questions, he motioned for me to pop the release and took a flashlight out of his pants pocket. Then he delved under my hood.
At present he was shaking his head, his lips twisting to the side. “Your timing belt broke. You need a new engine.”
“I need a new engine?” I asked dumbly.
“You need a new engine and a new timing belt.”
All the wind left my lungs in a whoosh, and I staggered a bit to the side. I was dizzy, mostly because there were little dollar signs flying around my head. I couldn’t afford a new engine. I couldn’t afford a car. I had student loans out the wazoo and a new car would mean delaying all my plans.
In an instant, Cletus was at my elbow, his hand wrapping around my waist.
He must’ve realized I was about fall down, because he scooped me up in his arms and said, “You’ll have to grab my banjo and carry it on your lap.”
“What?” I stared up at him, at his brown beard and his perma-serious hazel eyes.
“My banjo case, you’ll need to carry it on your lap. I can’t carry both you and the case unless I put you over my shoulder. But I think that would be counterproductive, seeing as your skirt is extremely short and has already hiked up around your thighs.”
I glanced down at myself and found his words to be an understatement. I’d taken my cape off earlier. Along with my beard, hat, and staff, it was in the cab of the truck. Therefore I was basically mooning the darkened parking lot.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I shook my head to clear it. “Just…just put me down. I’ll figure something out.”
Cletus deposited my feet on the ground but didn’t move away. “Did your daddy already leave?”
I nodded. My dad and brother would be on duty tonight. I had no desire to call them for a ride.
“That’s too bad. I meant to talk to him about the mail sorter down at the station. It’s due for maintenance. Do you happen to know if they’re having any troubles?”
Non-sequiturs and rapid subject changes weren’t unusual for Cletus, so I shook my head, having no idea what he was talking about. “I’m sorry, I have no idea.”
“Hmm… Well, what about your momma?”
“She’s visiting my aunt Louisa in Texas, who has cancer, so I don’t know how long Momma will be out there.” My teeth chattered and I glared at the monster truck.
Aunt Louisa had no children and had never been married. She’d lived alone in a huge house on a horse farm in Texas for the last fifteen or so years. My momma and I had visited for a few weeks every summer and I’d spent my entire summers during college keeping her company and running errands. Sometimes she’d come to our house for Christmas.
She was the kind of person who kept others at an arm’s length. Even after spending months with her, I never felt like I really knew her. But my momma and aunt were very close.
I heard Cletus sigh. With his arm still around my waist, he walked us both to his banjo case and picked it up. “Well, looks like you’re coming with me. Do you have a sweater or something?”
“Naw, Cletus. I don’t want to be a bother.”
His hand gripped me tighter. “Nonsense. You’re no bother. But I have to make a stop before I take you home. What about that sweater? A coat maybe?”
“I have a wizard cape in the truck,” I offered weakly. “I wouldn’t have driven it tonight if I thought the problem was this serious, I didn’t expect it to break down.”
“They never do.” Cletus grunted and kicked my driver’s side door shut; he then pushed me gently against it. “Hold still,” he said, placing his banjo back on the ground. He took off his red and black flannel jacket and handed it to me.
I thought about pushing it away, but something about his deadpan expression told me not to argue.
“Thanks, Cletus.”
“You’re welcome, Miss James.”
I frowned at the formal salutation. Cletus Winston was the third oldest of the Winston kids and was a full six or seven years older than me. “You can call me Jessica, you know.”
“Nope. You’re my teacher. It wouldn’t be fit.” He grabbed his banjo case in one arm, me with the other, and marched us to his car.
“Wait.” I glanced over my shoulder. “I didn’t lock the truck.”
Cletus shrugged. “I wouldn’t fret too much about it. In order for someone to steal the beast, they’d have to install a new engine.”