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Davis glares at us.
I’ve packed some of Marci’s favorites in the picnic basket—orange juice, a packet of barbecue chips, donuts from Doughies, dusted with confectioner’s sugar.
“This looks great, Tay—baby,” she says.
“Baby.”
The word comes out snarled by desire. Fuck. I like that. I like her calling me thattoo much.
“Sorry,” she says. “I meant Sweet Cheeks.”
I laugh, and that draws more stares. People are talking, and it’s a good thing. They slowly return to their conversations as we settle in.
“Did you hear about that woman who’s running for sheriff?” Davis says nearby, chest puffed out, arm around his wife. “Some lady named Francis. Old. As if she stands a chance.”
“I don’t know,” Deputy Josefs says. “Might be nice to hear what she says, right?”
Davis glares at him, and I’m reminded that I like Josefs.
Josefs breaks the tension by starting up a game of touch football, and my competitive side is already hyped to go play, but staying with Marci will be more fun.
“You going to join them?” Marci asks, picking up a donut. “I’m sure it will go a long way toward you shmoozing. And I should probably get to know the wives and girlfriends, right?”
She keeps her voice low.
“You don’t want me to hang out?”
“Is that a trick question? The sooner you leave, the sooner I can eat most of these donuts,” she says. “Without shame.”
She loves food as much as I do, and that makes me real fucking happy. “Save, like… two for me.”
“One.”
Her lips are coated in sugar. I want to lick it off.
“Three.”
“Two.”
“Sold,” I say, and then push myself up and run over to join the guys.
All through the game, I can’t help glancing over to check on her. She’s surrounded by women, chatting and laughing, likely asking her questions about us. I’m not arrogant enough to see myself as a desirable bachelor but the women in this town know I don’t want to settle down. They’ll be curious why I chose to do it.
I crouch over, ball in my hands, my gaze drifting to Marci again.
“Down, set…”
She flicks auburn hair over one shoulder, the column of her throat working as she talks. So delicate. So fucking?—
“Hike! I said, hike. Taylor, are you alive over there?” Hamill, our quarterback, shouts.
Another of the guys sniggers, and I straighten.
“Fuck, sorry.”
“Bro, are you going to play the game or stand there with a hard-on?” he asks. “We’re losing.”
“Yeah, I’m out.”
