Dean glances my way twice, then refocuses on the road. “That’s a good way of looking at it.”
“It’s true.” I watch Bluebell pass by the windows and can’t help but laugh. “The funny thing is, I wanted to have four or five, maybe even six kids. I wanted this chaos. In a lot of ways, I still do. I enjoy it, despite the fact that it’s making me gray and perma-exhausted.”
“Maybe even six kids?” he repeats with a chuckle. “Man, that’s double what you got now.”
“I thought you taught history, not math,” I tease him, enjoying the way his cheeks grow just a touch pink with my words.
“I’d like to think that my liberal studies degree means I can teach both,” he retorts with a grin. “So what had youstopping at three?” he asks, unknowingly toeing into a serious answer.
I look his way, then out the windshield at the field of lilacs we’re driving past. “Troy, my ex-husband, didn’t share that vision.”
He looks like he’s struggling to make sense of what I just told him, and beneath his large hands, he grips the steering wheel more tightly. “No?”
I nod, despising the lilacs for how strongly they’re scented. I normally love the scent, but right now, they’re overpowering Dean’s cologne. I can smell flowers any damn time. A hot, strong, sexy man’s cologne? Just this truck ride. So the lilacs need to stand down.
“Yeah,” I reply to Dean, my head a little swimmy with how much I enjoy riding next to him in the truck. Been so used to driving alone, or with three little mini-me’s arguing over music, who touches who, and who farted. This is nice. “He told me when I found out that I was pregnant that he didn't want any more kids. I told him his timing was about six weeks too late. Then I had Archie, and the boys were at the hospital with me, visiting their baby brother. Troy went out to grab size one diapers, since Archie was over nine pounds when he was born and didn’t fit the newborn size. Anyway, that’s the last we saw of him. He had divorce papers drawn up about a year later, and that was that.”
“Jesus, Clara June, I’m sorry. That’s… absolutely awful. What a sh—” he pauses, glancing my way, trying to watch the road and hold eye contact. “Is he in their lives at all?”
I shake my head. “No, and don’t apologize. Living a life with someone who doesn’t want to be there would’ve been horrible. Sure, things can get tough alone but we're good.” I smile, because honestly? It’s the truth. “We’re great.”
He shakes his head, still trying to accept the truth I’vedropped on him. “Still, leaving your wife and kids,” he says. “What’s his name?”
“Troy,” I reply, jogging his memory.
He racks his brain, telling me how the name sounded vaguely familiar. “I think he was a senior when I was a freshman. He went to Bluebell High?”
I nod. “Yeah. He did.”
His brows knit. “Was his last name Tomlinson?”
I nod again. “Yeah. My maiden name is Colt. I changed my name back, and the boys’ last names, when I signed the divorce paperwork. No defunct man is giving my sons his name. No way.”
He smiles, and it infuses me with a burst of happiness. “Good for you.”
I pick at the frayed thread on my jeans. “How about you? If you were four years younger than Troy, you’re about, what, thirty eight? Any wives, current or ex?”
He glances my way, one hand resting masterfully atop the steering wheel, the other resting on his thigh. I can’t help but glance at his thigh, swollen up in those blue jeans, looking strong and thick. I wonder if he did squats this morning? I look away before he catches me, and realize had he caught me, he likely would think I was trying to check out his bulge.
A bulge.
So foreign to me.
I used to love sex, and making love, and giving head, and being pleasured. All of it. But it’s been years since I’ve seen a grown man in the nude, and even longer since I’ve had an orgasm. Taking a peak at a bulge is basically starring in a porno for me, at this point in my life.
“Never been married, never even been almost married,” he says, using his blinker again as we pull up to the last stop sign in Bluebell.
I arch a brow. “How is that possible?” And as soon as I say it, I want to yank the words back by the hair. Did I just admit I think he’s absolutely gorgeous in that statement? My cheeks flame like I did, and yet all he does is laugh, soft and gentle, non-threatening, like he thinks I’m funny.
“Recently, well, it’s my fault. I stopped trying within the last five or so years. Before that, well, I just never met someone who liked what I liked, and vice versa I guess.”
He takes his turn, and we approach a sign telling us that Oakcreek is now just 28 miles away. “Yeah, and what is that? I mean, what do you like?”
He straightens against his seat a little, looking at me with an adorable smirk. “Miss Clara June, asking the hard hitting questions this fine Saturday morning.”
Heat climbs my neck. “I’m sorry—that’s none of my business. I’m—I’m sorry.” Why am I prying into what he’s looking for in a woman? Or… am I? I don’t know. It’s been so long since I’ve made casual conversation with a hot man that I have no clue if I’m doing it right.
This could be why I don’t date. I think I may be really bad at it. Paired with the whole can’t orgasm thing— what’s the point?
