Escaping Me (18 page)

* * *

Zeke and I get the first coat of paint on the house and the girls finish the shutters right before I hear the rumbling of Hank's 4x4 Bronco pulling up the driveway.  I watch Whitney greet him as he climbs out of his truck.  Hank is big guy—like a six-foot-four, two-hundred-sixty-pound, could-bench-press-a-brick-shit-house big guy.  He still rocks the buzz cut he got before he shipped out for Vietnam, and I'm pretty sure he wakes up in the morning and eats a dozen raw eggs.  He has a wicked sense of humor, and while he is really just a big softy, he prefers to make people squirm. And he acts like he hates the world most of the time.  There is one exception; when he climbs out of his truck and sees the Vandaveer sisters in their shorts and tank tops, he skips his tough guy routine and immediately cracks a smile.

“
You must be Hank,” Whitney says, jetting her hand out and reaching for his.  “I've heard a lot about you.” 

“
You must be the pretty little thing that showed up at the yard and distracted all my guys for a good thirty minutes,” he jokes, shaking her hand.

“
Yeah, well, it doesn't take much to distract the goons you've got working for you.” 
Man, I love her.
She doesn’t miss a beat, giving it right back to Hank. 

He bellies out a laugh as he walks over to me.  “How ya doing, kid?” He pats me on the back as he looks around his property.  “You've got a little spitfire here,” he notes, giving Whitney a wink.

“You're telling me?” I chuckle.  “You come to check up on me?”

“
I did.  The place looks great.”

I start to say 'thank you,' but my little spitfire decides she is going to play tour guide.  She skips up the front porch and opens the front door.

“You've got to see what he did to the inside.  It looks awesome.”  She motions for Hank to enter, and I hold my breath while waiting to hear the verdict.  I follow them in as Whitney starts pointing out all the things she thinks he should notice.  It's cute.  I know that Hank doesn't give two shits about the décor, but he smiles and agrees with everything Whitney is saying.  But I’m not blind—I see him checking out the floor boards I replaced and the wall that had to be rebuilt.  He is evaluating my construction skills, making sure the place is structurally sound.

“
You get the fireplace working?” he asks.

“
Yeah,” I nod.  “After I relocated the family of squirrels that made their home in the chimney. I moved them out to the oak tree across the property.”

“
I have a twelve-gauge you could have borrowed,” Hank snickers.

I laugh.  “I didn't think it would be a fair fight to shoot them while they were cornered.  Takes away from the hunt when their backs are against the wall.  You know?”

He agrees and I watch Whitney frown as she processes our hunting conversation.

“
Plus, I didn't want to see that face.” I point at her. 

“
You wouldn't really shoot those poor little squirrels would you?” she pouts.

I shake my head to appease her.  The truth is I love to go hunting, but if she asked me to, I'd become a member of PETA tomorrow.

“Well, Hell... now I feel bad for even mentioning it,” Hank adds.  Whit smiles, knowing she has won.  What is it about this girl that makes grown men—who are set in their ways—bend like a plastic spoon over a flame?

“
Kitchen looks great,” he says, turning the dial on the sink faucet.  “How long did this take you?”

“
Couple days,” I reply.  “Had to run a new water line.”  I explain that the old one was corroded and that I replaced the old copper pipe with plastic.  “Should last a while now.”

He nods, agreeing with my technique.

“Did the same in the bathroom.  Plus, I put in a new toilet.  That old one had definitely seen better days.”

He doesn’t say much, but his expression is never of disappointment.  I am pretty sure he thinks I did a good job.  Then again, like I said before, he likes to make people squirm.  I still can't be sure what is going to come out of his mouth.  The only experience I’ve had was the couple summers I worked for a contractor.  I’m not going to tell Hank, but I had to Google a few things as I was working.

By the time Hank finishes his inspection, the sun is barely hanging on to the horizon.  We walk back outside just as Mallory and Zeke are climbing into his truck.

“
See you tomorrow, Whit?” Mal asks, standing on the frame of the door and looking over the roof.  “Dinner's at six.”

“
We'll be there,” she says.  “Dinner at Mom's,” she tells me when I give her a shrug. 
Yes.
  I can handle one of Leanne's home-cooked meals. 

“
Thanks for the help today, guys,” I add.  They both smile as they shut their doors and Zeke pulls out of the drive.

“
So what do you think?” Whitney turns her attention back to Hank, who is admiring my handiwork on the front porch.

“
I'm impressed,” he grins.  “This place looks better than it has in years.”

“
Thank you,” I say, trying to play it cool.  I am relieved that he thinks I did a good job.  The fact that he came all the way out here and is climbing back into his Bronco with a pleased smile on his face makes it all worth it.  I sacrificed quite a bit of time with Whitney to make sure this place looks decent, and Hank's approval, and the look on Whitney's face last night, are the rewards.

“
I'll see you on Monday,” Hank says before leaving.  “We'll talk about what's next.”

“
Okay,” I agree, wondering what exactly he means by 'what's next.'  As we watch him leave, Whit wraps her arms around my waist and I tuck her in under my arm.  “Thanks, babe.”

“
For what?”

“
Everything,” I answer, knowing she will understand what I am saying—for being with me, for understanding why I needed to finish the house, for talking me up to my boss. The list goes on...

“
Always,” she answers without hesitation.

Chapter 21 – Whitney

Jesus, Whitney.
  Do you really want everyone to know what you've been up to? 

The reflection staring back at me in the mirror has a smile plastered on her face, and her skin is radiating a post-coital glow, giving the impression that she's just been screwed within an inch of her life and absolutely loved every toe-curling second of it.  It is true.  The past two days with Cole have been more explosive than I could have ever imagined.  Every time I think about what we've done—what I've done—I start blushing like an embarrassed child.  That's not to say I don't want to do it again... and again and again.  He is just too damn sexy.  The look in his eyes when he is hovering above me is hypnotizing, and I don't even want to think about his body—his ridiculously toned, perfect body.  How was I ever satisfied with Wesley?  Sure, he is good looking and in good shape, but he has no idea how to use what the good Lord gave him.  Not the way the Cole does.

While a part of me wants to stand up and say, “I've been having amazing sex,” the other part wants to hide.  I’m not ashamed of what I've been doing.  I’m just not ready for everyone who looks at me to know it.  Especially my mother.  We are due at her house in thirty minutes for dinner, and I know the second I walk through that door she'll be eyeballing me and quickly figuring out what her precious daughter has been up to.

When the cause of my excitement walks into the bathroom and wraps his arms around me, my body immediately reacts.  He doesn't do anything other than rest his chin on my shoulder and smile, and every drop of blood in my veins rushes between my legs as my skin starts to surge like it is begging for his touch.  I am officially addicted. 
Perfect.
  I am a sex junkie and Cole Pritchett is my dealer.

“
You look pretty,” he grins.  He presses his lips to my neck and tightens his arms around me, letting me silently know that he has no intentions of ever letting me go.  Once I decided to put clothes on, I hoped that the fabric of my khaki shorts and blue tunic would be enough to shield me from his advances.  At least long enough to make it through dinner.

I shake my head and fight back the urge to prop myself up on the counter and beg him for another go.  Staring at him through the mirror, I try to give him my best authoritative tone.
“Don't do that.”

“
Do what? Tell you that you look pretty or this?” He kisses my neck again.

“
Yes, that.” I tilt my head to give him better access, despite my best attempt to remain still.  When he pulls the bottom of my ear between his teeth, I feel my knees go weak.  “We can't,” I protest.  “We're going to be late.  Besides that, I just got my hair and makeup finished.”

“
I won't mess it up,” he promises, turning me in his arms to face him and giving me his best bedroom eyes.  Oh, I want him to kiss him, but right before he can press his lips to mine, I stop him.

“
I mean it, Pritchett.” I point at him with stern face.  “We have got to go.”

“
It takes five minutes to get there,” he argues.  “Which leaves me twenty-five minutes to have my way with you.” He starts to lower his lips toward me again.  This time I let him lightly press them to mine before I hit the brakes.

“
Nope.” I swing back to the mirror just in time to see him drop his head.

“
You're such a tease.” He looks up and pouts.

I lean forward to put on a final coat of mascara.  My butt grazes his lap, and when I hear him sigh, I wiggle my hips against him.  His hands immediately grab me, pulling my body closer to his.  I continue to play with fire, enjoying the rise I am getting out of him.  When I stand straight, my backside melds to him.  I peek over my shoulder, and he lowers his head to mine.  I flick my tongue against his lips and feel his hands creeping up my waist under the bottom of my shirt, his fingers trailing over my skin and heading north. I know that if I let him make it to my breasts, it is game over.

“Cole,” I whisper against his lips.

“
Yeah,” he moans in reply.

“
This is what an actual tease looks like.”  I spin out of his arms and put a couple steps between us.  “We've got to go.”

He shakes his head. “You're killing me.”

“You'll survive,” I joke.  “Now you have something to look forward to.”

“
I'm definitely looking forward to it,” he chuckles, following me through the house to the front door.  He grabs a small cooler off the kitchen counter before we head for the truck.  As we are pulling down the lane, Cole reaches into the cooler and hands me a beer. 

“
You're a bad influence.” I laugh, taking it from his hand.

“
You're the one who wants new experiences.  I'm just trying to accommodate your requests.”

I nod. “You're right.”  I open the bottle and hold it up.  “Here's to my first road trip.”

He pulls his own beer from the cooler and clinks it against mine before opening it and taking a drink.  When he finishes, he reaches over to turn up the radio.  We take the long way to Mom's house, letting the summer air breeze through the open windows as we drive, the quiet country roads providing a peaceful backdrop for our drive.  I’m not about to become an advocate for drinking and driving, but the fact that Cole's driving thirty miles an hour and we haven’t passed another car helps ease my anxiety.  What is it they say?  When in Rome...

Cole puts his arm around my shoulders so I turn my back to lean into him, letting my feet stretch out on the bench seat.  I glance up at him when he doesn't think I am looking.  He left his trademark hat at home on the dresser and I love the way the wind is catching his hair, causing the pieces along his forehead to flutter in breeze.  He's been letting it grow out and I still haven't decided if I like it better longer or shorter.  Either way, he looks delicious.  When my favorite song, the Trace Corbin one the band played at the Picnic, comes on, I start tapping my foot against the truck door.  And when I hear Cole softly singing along to the words, I look up at him, confused.

“I thought you said you weren't a Trace Corbin fan?”

“
Well, I'm not going to advertise it,” he chuckles.  “And I wouldn't call myself a fan.  I mean, he's all right.”  He cracks a smile and starts belting out the chorus.

“
Omigod, you're totally lying!”  I call him out before joining in the sing-along.  “You are definitely a Corbin fan.”  He shakes his head and smiles, not denying that fact that even men are not immune to the country crooner's charms.

We pull in my mom's driveway and finish out the song, both of us laughing as we climb out of the truck and toss our empty bottles in the truck bed.

“I'm going to have you rocking it on my tailgate,” he jokes in reference to the song lyrics as he reaches for me.

“
You might.” I wink, locking my hand with his as we make our way up the front steps.  I can smell dinner wafting through the screen door.  When I look up to reach for the handle, all of our fun is cut short.