Walk on the Wilder Side by Serena Bell

14

Rachel

The next morning—after I sleep too late and bolt down breakfast—Brody pulls into the driveway.

I hurry to the truck and launch myself up into the passenger seat beside him.

Then I die of how good he looks and smells. Like, fresh from the shower, reeking of Irish Spring and Old Spice good. Torn jeans with already-strained denim pulled tight over his quads. And yet another second-skin t-shirt, this one proclaiming, “Real Men Fish.”

You’d get more or less the same effect without the text.

He leans over and molds his mouth to mine, and I go from normal woman to melted puddle of need in three seconds flat.

He pulls back and eyes me. I’m breathing hard.

“Ready?” he asks, a flash of green eyes and something that I’m pretty sure is a smirk.

Brody, smirking. This is actually a thing.

This is a very, very good thing.

“Ready,” I say.

Or as ready as anyone can ever be for Brody Wilder.

Brody, in typical Brody style, says nothing else to me as we head toward town. After a while, the silence stretches to the breaking point, and as we near the business district, I ask, “So what’s the plan?”

“I made a list,” he says, rustling along the dash for a piece of paper and dropping it in my lap. “Potential partners.”

“What if I want to keep you to myself?”

He barks out a laugh. I’ve startled him enough that he takes his eyes off the road, and I see them in all their glory. The corner of his mouth stays turned up, too. My thighs jellify.

“From a business perspective,” I say, still teasing.

“Mmm-hmm.” His eyes are back on the road, but his mouth still quirks like he’s holding back a smile. It’s delicious. “You won’t be here forever.”

“True,” I say. “So I can’t get an exclusive while I’m in town?” And then, when I get another flash of Brody green eyes, “From a business perspective, I mean.”

“Not,” he says, “from a business perspective. But if you want to talk about a different arena, maybe.”

“Brody,” I say. “I know I said I don’t care about Connor, but—”

He cuts me off. “I’ll deal with Connor. He’s my problem, not yours.”

He pulls into a parking space in front of Krandall’s Outdoor Outfitters.

Rush Creek has changed a ton in the time I’ve lived here. Growing up, it was cowboys and ranchers and outdoor adventurers bound for one of the national forests. These days, it’s more of a classic tourist destination, filled with honeymooners and wedding planners, couples on getaway jaunts, and groups of women enjoying girls’ weekends away. Stores I took for granted as a kid—like a gift shop that sold rodeo-related trinkets—have been completely transformed. The new tourists wear yoga pants and sports sandals, travel in packs of laughing women, and carry pretty tissue-paper stuffed shopping bags.

It still has more or less the same look—low, saloon-style architecture, Western front porches, barrels and T-shaped light stanchions. Wide plank horizontal wood siding, and here or there something a little more cottage-styled, with flower-boxes in the windows.

I surf a wave of nostalgia as Brody pulls into town. I think basically everyone who grew up in Rush Creek has some longing for the old rodeo, even those of us who thought we were indifferent. It was the heart of the town for so long.

Brody and I hop down from the truck and head into Rush to Read Books. Jem owns the shop; she’s my mom’s age and they’re good friends. She was a second mom to me when I was growing up—or third, if you count Barb Wilder.

Jem comes out from behind the desk to hug me. She’s Haitian-American, first generation, with dark cool-brown skin and medium-length straightened hair. She dresses, like my mom, in mom jeans, t-shirts, and sweatshirts—hers with the Rush to Read logo on the front. She and her husband have two teenaged girls who also sometimes work in the shop, although neither of them is here today.

Jem crosses her arms and narrows an eye at Brody. “And this is one of the Wilder boys. Brody, right?”

He’s pretty distinctive, even among his brothers. The tattoos, boots, and cuffs, which have made a return today, are a dead giveaway.

“That’s right, ma’am,” he says, and shakes her hand. “I’m actually here to make a business proposition.”

Her eyes flick to the tattoos and cuffs, but she says, “Go ahead.”

“I want to do book clubs on my boat. But it’s not my skill set.”

Jem, to her credit, just nods at that.

“So I was wondering if you’d want to do it. I could give you a small cut of the trip profits, and everyone would have to buy the book from you.”

She sighs. “Brody, my dear, I wish I could help you, but book clubs are tricky with tourists. They’re not here long enough to read the book.”

I feel a pang of sympathy—shot down so fast on his first attempt—but Brody comes right back at her. “What if you sold them on consignment through the hotel? As people show up, the books are sitting right there, and people can grab a copy. The money still goes to you. They get their copy and sign up to come out on the boat and talk about it. And you host.”

Her eyebrows go up. “I thought Gabe was the businessman in your family.”

He shrugs. “He is. This is just an idea.”

“It’s a good one,” she says, thoughtfully. “I’m willing to give it a shot.”

They talk for a while, working out some of the details, then shake hands. “You should also reach out to the library,” she says. “They’re always looking for programming ideas. As it gets harder to attract patrons into the library, they’re looking for creative ways to reach people. Ask for Donna when you go in there and say Jem sent you.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Brody says. “Will do.”

Jem turns to me. “How’s your mama doing?” she asks. “How’s that foot?”

“Healing. Slowly. She’s not in nearly as much pain anymore.”

“Oh, good,” Jem says.

I tell her that while we’re in there, I would like to get a couple of books for my mom. “She’s going through them like wildfire.” I turn to Brody. “If you don’t mind?”

He shakes his head. “I’m going to grab a cup of coffee. You want one?”

“Yes, please.”

“Jem?”

“Make mine a latte and you’re on.”

We both try to give him money, but he waves it off and disappears out the front door. I can’t help it; I watch him going, admiring the view. Broad back, narrow hips, and a butt that might, with enough exposure, banish my bad Werner memories.

“Those boys,” Jem says, shaking her head. “Cutest things on two legs, and the manners! And that one’s smart, too. So,” she says. “Romance, right?”

My mouth falls open.

“Rachel,” she says. “You and your mom want romance books. That was my question. What did you think I was asking?”

But it’s pretty obvious, and she doesn’t bother to hide her grin.