The Stars in the Sky (Giving You ... #2) (20 page)

One thing he said dawned on me.

"You're not an ugly ogre."

He raised an eyebrow.

"You're the most handsome man I have ever seen," I said quietly.

"Shucks," he said, and I burst out laughing again.

"Most people start swearing more when they get drunk. You start swearing less?"

"Guess so. I'm drunk, though. I mean, I'm not drunk, though." Then he got the sweetest look on his face, almost imploring. "Is kissing off the, uh, I mean, off the table?"

"No," I answered, smiling and getting a little closer.

"Then c'mere, baby," he said, pulling me up from my cross-legged position and into his lap, then leaning back and lying down so that I was straddling him.

There was no other way of describing our kiss than a stupid, drunk, sloppy, wet kiss. It was epically bad. By the end, he was on top and we were both giggling, nose to nose.

Will giggling was a thing to behold.

"We're better at kissing without the tequila," I said against his tan neck.

"Shucks," he said again. "I'm sorry. Told ya you were gonna get me fucked up. I'll kiss you better when it wears off."

"Okay, you got a deal."

He smiled, still on top of me, now between my legs, and leaned down to kiss my cheek, I think, but missed and kissed my ear. "Wanna hear my loophole?"

"Yeah."

"So, no sex, right? For-like-two-weeks?" he slurred, as he nibbled my ear.

"Right," I said, laughing. He was a pretty obvious drunk.

"So no," he paused for a second, "fucking, meaning no," pause, nibble, "sexual intercourse."

"You got that one right, cowboy." I wiggled under him and he came up and looked at me in the eyes.

"But kissing doesn't count."

"You already know that." I ran my hands through his hair and enjoyed the feel of his body on mine. Even if we weren't having sex, and even if he was not himself right now, he still felt good pressed to me. He still felt like he belonged there.

"Does oral sex count?" He was serious, but I burst out laughing.

"It has sex in the name, Will," I scolded him.

"Okay, so what about sex with yourself? That's not sex with me." And he reached over and pushed my hair behind my ear and kissed me behind my ear, sloppily. Drunk, Playful Will was around.

"What are you saying?" I asked, distracted by his attentions.

"If you went in the shower tonight, after this," pause, kiss, "fascinating discussion—"

He paused and brought his head up to look at me again.

"What?"

"Nothin'," he said.

"No one word answers, dude," I said, and I shook my finger at him.

"Just thinking about you in the shower and that is not helping the stiffy you gave me by the image of you walking around in public topless."

"You just said stiffy," I giggled.

He looked at me, confused, eyebrows furrowed. "What would you call it?"

"Boner."

"That . . . that too," he slurred. "So, if you get yourself off, and I don't touch you and you don't touch me, then we're not breaking your rules," he concluded, proud of himself.

I hated to burst his bubble.

"No."

"No?" he asked, taken aback.

"No sex."

"If I went and stroked off by myself, though, would that count?"

I thought about it. "I guess not."

"So what's the difference if you do it while I watch?"

"It's still sex if you're watching me."

"Darling, you keep talking the way you did earlier and if there was no tequila in me, I’d come. Now . . ." he trailed off.

"Yeah?"

He didn't say anything.

"You're going to need help getting back to the house aren't you?"

"Maybe," he said, sheepishly.

"Whose idea was it to go two weeks?"

"Yours," he said, and kissed me on my lips, enthusiastically, and better this time. He awkwardly got off of me and helped me up.

Then we packed up the picnic and went back to his house, where he immediately fell asleep with his clothes on.

Ice Cream

"DON'T YOU MISS BACON and eggs?”

It was Saturday morning. We had both woken up feeling the night before, but Gatorade and Advil had fixed it. We’d shuffled into the chow hall in our sweats. Cookie had given Will a spinach and egg casserole for breakfast, while I'd retrieved my cereal and soy milk from my stash and poured myself a bowl. We had sat together in the middle of the room and eaten with the wranglers and ranch hands. After they took off to check on the horses, Will started asking me questions.

"Not really," I answered. "I have more of a sweet tooth. The one food I really miss is ice cream, but there are some good vegan ice cream brands out there, so I make do."

He rolled his eyes and then gestured at my bowl with the fork in his hand. "How long have you been a vegan?"

"Three years. Before that, I was vegetarian. I haven't had meat since I was sixteen."

He just stared at me and shook his head. "You're missing out."

"I'm not going to kill any animals, Will."

"You don't kill a cow to eat ice cream." He bit a piece of bacon.

"True. But I think that we raise animals in inhumane conditions and I'm not going to support the mistreatment of any animals. I don't support all of the growth hormones and antibiotics that are force fed to them. And then there are all of the resources that are required to produce the cattle—all of the land and processing and fossil fuels that are—"

"Inhumane conditions," he repeated, interrupting me.

"Yes. I saw this PETA video—"

"Fucking PETA. PETA's never been to my ranch. Have you seen our cattle?"

Here we go again with the arguing. Round one million.

"Well, clearly
you
don't have inhumane conditions—" I started, but he interrupted.

"I don't use growth hormones either."

"It's just something I believe in," I said, defensively. "It matters to me. I'm not going to change it."

Will looked over at my rice milk box, disgusted. "What you eat—it's not even food. It's—I don't know what that is that you eat. Why don't you just eat a normal meal like everyone else?"

"Because I don't want to."

An expression came over his face, impish and adorable. "Would you do it on a dare? What if I took you to a fancy, organic, no-growth-hormone ice cream place. The good shit. Would you eat it?"

I took a deep breath. Ice cream really was the thing that I missed the most about being a vegan. The other stuff, no. I didn't need it. "Are you asking me if I’d compromise a belief for you? I mean, that's what you're asking me, right? Would I change something about me if you dared me?"

"Suppose so, yeah."

Raising an eyebrow, I scolded him. "That sounds an awful lot like a game, Will Thrash. You accused me of playing games, but now you're the one doing it."

He set down his fork. "I need more coffee before I can argue with you," he muttered.

"No you don't." I let out a sigh. "Okay."

He did a double-take. "Okay, what?"

"Okay, I'll do it if you do it too."

"Meaning?"

"I'll go eat ice cream—"

"—compromising your beliefs," he said, now teasing me.

"—if you wear the tie-dye all day and go with me wherever I want. We drive in my car. And we're going to go to every hippie store I can think of, Will, and you're going to try a lot of new things."

He laughed. "Can't picture me wearing that tie-dye."

"Neither can I, so I want to see it, big guy. And that's just the beginning. I'm thinking yoga and drum circles and spiritual enlightenment book stores. You're going to learn about the Law of Attraction and we're going to go to the Democratic headquarters in Santa Barbara."

"Oh, now that's just mean," he drawled. "I offer to take you to have an ice cream cone. That's a date. You're punishing me."

"Take it or leave it. I'll eat ice cream and in exchange you do whatever it is I want you to do."

"No."

"No?" I couldn't believe he said no—I was really going to break my vegan-ness for him. I started to get mad but he spoke.

"I'll wear the shirt and you can drive your car and we'll go wherever you want except nothing political."

Guess he didn't want to go there either. That sounded like he was giving in. I reached over and shook his hand. "Mr. Thrash, I think you have yourself a deal."

After breakfast, we wandered over to the stables to check on the horses. Happy didn't really eat his breakfast, but I suppose he wasn't hungry. His stall looked clean. The wranglers must have already mucked it out.

Since I had this strange living arrangement where I slept with Will in his house—just sleeping for now—but my stuff wasn’t there, I went to the bunkhouse and showered and changed, putting on white short shorts, flip flops, and a blue and white striped sailor shirt. Then I walked over to Will's house.

When I walked in, he was nowhere to be seen. "Will!" I called out. I heard him yell from upstairs, "Come on up."

When I got up to his room, he was standing in his bedroom, dark hair wet and wavy, barefoot, shirtless, wearing Levi's.

My boy actually owned jeans other than Wranglers.

And he looked gorgeous in them—dark wash, low slung, hugging his ass just right. They hung below his boxers, so I guess he only went commando in Wranglers.

He smiled, a rueful smirk. "I can't believe you're actually making me do this." And he reached over, picked up the black and blue tie-dyed shirt he made, and put it on.

Hoo-boy. Mr. Will always wore his shirts a little tight, and this was no exception. It hugged his chest, and his arm muscles bulged in the sleeves.

"Don't feel like myself," he said, running his hand down his abdominal muscles.

"You don't look like yourself," I said, and looked him up and down. He looked like a hunky guy that you’d see at Whole Foods, but he didn't look like my Will. It neutralized him. Truly, it was astonishing how much his clothes and his cowboy persona defined him. He looked beautiful, but it was different.

Almost too different.

I had half a mind to let him take it off.

But
nah
. This was too much fun.

"Can't wear boots with this," he said. "It feels wrong." And he pulled on flip flops and sunglasses.

I hadn't realized how much I was attracted to him as a rancher. Making him look like someone he wasn't felt off. I needed to throw him a bone.

"Tell you what. I'll buy me some Wranglers today and wear them for you, okay?" He shrugged. "Just Wranglers, no shirt."

"Deal," he said immediately.

We walked out to my car and he shuddered. "Can't believe I’m letting you talk me into this," he said under his breath.

"I heard that." I unlocked the doors and we got in.

"I don't know which is worse. Driving this hippie-mobile or being driven."

"I'll drive," I said. "I know where I want to go."

"And I'll take you to McConnell's for ice cream."

Ooh. Local, old fashioned, the good stuff.

Yum.

I almost forgot I was vegan.

Keys

"OPEN YOUR MOUTH, DARLIN'."

I obeyed and licked the sweet, slightly salty white cream that Will held out for me.

And then I let out a loud moan of pleasure.

Oh yummmmmmm.

Sea Salt Cream & Cookies flavor ice cream.

Three years of no ice cream, that is, no real ice cream, made McConnell's taste even more exceptional. If I went non-vegan, Will was right, this was an excellent way to do it. It was tasty and it met my ecopolitical objectives—a family-owned business since the 1940s that used local, high-quality ingredients, and didn't have the bad shit in it.

And it was a date, with my boyfriend, buying me an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. Thinking about the word boyfriend made me feel all squishy in my belly. I wasn’t used to calling him that, but if we were together, wasn't he my boyfriend?

My boyfriend, Will Thrash.

I needed to think about that sometime. I needed to talk to Amelia about that too. Now wasn't the time, though. Now was the time to enjoy my treat.

"What do you think?" he asked, pulling the cone away from my lips.