Page 48 of Homebound

I spent one summer going through every store at the mall, trying to find a cologne that smelled like mountain laurels, all to see if it’d set something off in her pheromones to make her like me. It didn’t work, but it does smell good, so I still wear it.

She scans the hazy bar, her eyes widening when they land on someone.

“Okay, you’ve still got it. That woman right there can’t stop staring at you,” she says, using her prickly pear margarita to point to someone. “See? She just did it again!”

I don’t even bother looking. “Not my type.”

“What’s your type?”

“Women who want nothing to do with me, apparently,” I mutter.

She snorts. “Seems like we have the same type. Give me a man who wants nothing to do with me, and my traitorous legs spread on their own. That’s why I fell for Boone. I had to win him over. Now, stop putting your arm around me. People are gonna think we’re together.” Dakota shrugs off my arm for the tenth fucking time, nodding to a woman in the corner. “Okay, what about the cute brunette in the jean strapless jumpsuit?”

“Nope.” I keep my eyes on her, not that she notices because I’m a doormat to this woman.

“Look,” she commands, gripping my chin and forcing me to turn.

Holding back a frown, I look past the couples twirling on the dance floor, their boots scuffing against the old planks. The neon Coors sign flickers while a country band plays a cover of “I Like It, I Love It” by Tim McGraw, but I finally spot the woman.

“Yeah, I see her,” I say. “What about her?”

“That’s Emmylou,” Dakota says, her warm breath fanning my cheek. She rests her hand on my forearm, oblivious to the fact that she’s driving me absolutely insane. “She’s a second-grade teacher at Granite Falls Elementary, and she’s sweeter than a Fredericksburg peach, so she’s perfect for you. You should go talk to her.”

The only thing I’m thinking about is how Emmylou is the name of the girl in the song “Check Yes or No” by George Strait, and how Dakota’s stereo broke one summer, and that song played on repeat every time she drove us around in Daisy Blue. “I don’t really want to talk to any women tonight. I’m not feeling it.”

“Why not?” she asks.

“Because I’m here with you,” I say, lowering my voice. “You’re the only woman I plan on taking home.”

“That’s because we live together.” She sets her drink down to undo one button on my shirt, and I get all kinds of sexy ideas that involve her red dress coming off.

“No, it’s just because I want to take you home,” I counter.

“You’re too sweet for me. You look great in that button-down and those Wranglers, by the way,” she says, unperturbed. “You just need to roll up the sleeves.”

She waves Emmylou over to us, and her eyes snag on me. Dakota starts rolling my sleeves up herself.

I pinch my brows. “I don’t get it. Why do I need to roll up my sleeves?”

“Because women want to see your forearm veins. They’re sexy. There.” She nods, satisfied with her sleeve-rolling.

I grin at that. “You think my forearm veins are sexy?”

“Yeah, women are obsessed with forearm veins.”

“I didn’t ask about women; I asked about you.”

“I don’t matter. Now, quick. She’s coming over here. Go ask her to dance, but if you kiss her, just don’t do that weird lip purse thing you did when we played spin the bottle that one summer and you kissed Laura Jean.”

“What the hell is a lip purse thing?”

“You know, like fish lips.” She smooches the air, doing a loud demonstration.

Fucking fish lips? Is that really how she thinks I kiss a woman? Goddammit.

I take a giant swig of my beer, keeping my arm draped around her shoulder. “Alright, I know it’s been a while for me, but I know how to kiss a woman, and I know damn well how to please a woman.”

Her mouth parts, but I don’t have it in me to be embarrassed.