Near and Far
Page 1
Chapter One
SOMETIMES LOVE WAS about compromise, and sometimes it was about sacrifice. Most times, it was a little of both. I’d learned that the trial-and-error way.
One other thing I’d learned the trial-and-error way? I didn’t care how much I had to compromise or sacrifice to be with Rowen Sterling. I’d do whatever I could to make her happy. To let her live her dreams. To feel fulfilled. To recognize she was so damn special to me, I ached—a deep, throbbing pain—whenever we were apart.
She was sacred to me.
I made it a priority to treat her as such. That’s why I was on my second energy drink and had both windows in Old Bessie cranked down despite the near-freezing temperature.
It was Friday night. Scratch that. It was early, early Saturday morning . . . and I was heading west. Rowen didn’t like me driving eight hours after a full day of ranch detail. Well, she didn’t like me driving any distance in Old Bessie period, so we’d made one of those all-important compromises and settled on me leaving Saturday mornings for my monthly trips to Seattle.
One problem with that.
I wasn’t willing to sacrifice a night with her, so I’d never really gone along with that compromise. I’d sacrificed sleep and pushed through exhaustion to get to her Saturday morning on every one of the six trips I’d made.
See? Sacrifice and compromise around every relationship corner.
She’d always grumble a little and try to pretend she was all put out I’d risked life and limb to get to her twenty hours sooner than planned, but one smile and shrug from me melted that act. She was a sucker for my smile. It got to her. Every. Single. Time. I wasn’t above admitting I’d used that knowledge to my advantage when I found myself heading into deep-ish water with her. A smile, a shrug, and a shimmy, and she was putty in my hands.
Before anyone goes and thinks I’m not playing the love game fair, let me get it on record that I am—one hundred and twenty percent of the time—putty in Rowen Sterling’s hands. No matter what she does, or what facial expression she makes, or what words she chooses, my steady state around her is putty. Pliable, gooey putty. I never thought I’d be so damn happy to be a glorified form of Play-Doh in a girl’s hands. Life’s ironies, right?
As I’m reaching for my third and last energy drink, I see my exit in the distance. As bushed as I am, I perk up instantly. I’ve driven that route enough to know Rowen’s apartment is fifteen minutes away. Ten minutes if I really push Old Bessie to her upper limits. I pushed her to those upper limits every time, and so far, Old Bessie had never failed me.
I passed the sprawling community college Rowen attended. I’d walked around the campus with her a few times. It’s a nice school, and the art building where she basically lives when she’s not working is impressive, even to someone like myself, who didn’t know the difference between Monet and Manet until a certain impassioned someone took it upon herself to school me in art history. I’d learned more about art than anyone would guess some cowboy from Montana knew.
I loved that about Rowen. I loved that about us.
We took normal, average, and what was expected . . . and turned it upside down. We didn’t do anything just because that was what society expected. We held to our own standards and didn’t worry about meeting the expectations of some nameless majority.
By the time I pulled onto Rowen’s street, I’d hit fifty miles per hour. I didn’t even try to ease off the gas. I knew from previous attempts that trying to hold back would be a wasted effort. When I was that close to having Rowen in my arms, I couldn’t pull back. When she was that close, I couldn’t get to her fast enough.
Old Bessie practically got air when I pulled into the apartment complex’s entrance. As I whipped through the complex’s old buildings—that had enough wear and tear to look even older—I took note of every burnt-out light lining the sidewalk to Rowen’s building.
She didn’t have a car. She didn’t do public transportation, except for the Greyhound bus she took once a month to come to Montana. What mode of transportation did my girlfriend choose to use in rainy, traffic-ridden Seattle?
A bike.
Yep, an old, single-gear bike she’d found at the apartment complex a week after she moved in. It made me uneasy in every way a guy could be. Every time I thought of her peddling to school or the funky doughnut shop she worked at that wasn’t exactly on the low-crime side of town, I wanted to buy her a bus pass or a reliable little Honda.
She’d refused all of my suggestions about some kind, any kind, of transportation other than a bike. She was adamant I was being ridiculous. I was adamant she was being just as ridiculous. So what did I do when she thought she was right and I thought I was just as right?
I let it go.
Rowen rode a bike in a part of Seattle that made my stomach clench into knots when I thought about it. There was no compromise there. I had to sacrifice what I wanted for what she wanted, because ultimately, no one could control another person. The harder one tried, the more the other slipped through their fingers. I wasn’t going to let Rowen slip through mine by being a controlling, overbearing caveman.
I couldn’t and—perhaps what was more essential—I wouldn’t control her. So I controlled the few things I could when it came to her chosen mode of transportation. Like tending to burnt-out streetlights on the sidewalk to her apartment. Or checking her tires. Or greasing the chain. Or making sure she kept the can of mace I’d given her the day she’d moved-in in the side pocket of her backpack. I took care of the things I could control and didn’t waste my time trying to control the things I couldn’t.
It was an easier concept to accept than it was to execute.
Whipping into the first empty parking space I found, I didn’t even bother grabbing my duffel bag from the bed of the truck. I almost forgot to turn off the engine and remove the keys from the ignition. Jogging to Rowen’s first floor apartment, I fumbled with my key chain. She’d given me a spare key after clearing it with her roommate, Alex. I’d been relieved to discover Alex was short for Alexandria. Again, if Rowen had chosen to live with a male roommate, that wasn’t something I could control. I wouldn’t have liked it, but I trusted her.
Trust wasn’t just something I gave someone; it was something they had to prove. And Rowen had proven it again and again.
Alex worked at the same doughnut shop Rowen did. She’d helped Rowen get the job there and, since it was a Friday night, she wouldn’t come through the front door until the sun had come up. Alex lived life like it was going out of style, and weekends and all of the limitless adventures they held were not to be wasted.
After unlocking the door, I stepped inside and closed the door noiselessly. All of the lights were out except for the lava lamp bubbling in the window. The apartment was about the size of a shoe box, but Rowen and Alex had made good use of the space. Once I’d slipped off my boots at the door, I padded through the cubby-sized kitchen and headed for Rowen’s bedroom.
She always burned a vanilla candle when she was drawing or painting or molding or whatever other medium she was hard at work on, and I could still smell it. I’d associated with that smell with coming home, with finding my way back to her.
Her door was cracked open, like she knew I’d be showing up and was waiting for me. I slipped inside and leaned into the wall. Rowen wasn’t even ten feet in front of me, asleep in one of my white shirts that looked like a dress on her, her sheet tangled around her legs. I froze for a moment and just let myself . . . admire her.
That girl, that woman, was mine. And even though that was a hallmark I was intensely proud of, I was more sure and proud of something else.
I was hers.
It wasn’t a question. It had never been an option. It was something set into motion the day the universe was created, and thousands of years later, there we were. We’d found each other. I was hers, she was mine, we were each other’s. It was powerful stuff that hit me in moments like that. I knew it was the kind of profoundness that would get me labeled as a whipped sap, and I didn’t give a damn.
If people wanted to call me a whipped sap because I loved—loved—the girl lying in front of me, then bring it on.
After another minute, that ache of separation reminded me of its presence. Watching and musing time was over; I needed to be close to her. My need to be with her became so urgent I didn’t bother to slip out of my jeans. I just lowered onto the bed and slid across the mattress until every inch of me was curved around every inch of her. One arm slipped beneath her as the other one wrapped around her. I breathed the first full breath I’d taken since I’d said good-bye two weeks ago when she left Montana.
My intention wasn’t to wake her, but she always did, almost like she was waiting for me in her dreams. “You weren’t supposed to be here for another twenty hours,” she said in a sleep heavy voice. “Sleep deprivation. Falling asleep at the wheel. I like you alive and in one piece.”
I smiled and pressed my face into the curve of her neck. I inhaled, taking her in, and exhaled, letting her go. “I know.” I tightened my arms to feel her more solidly in them.
“You never listen to me.” She sighed, and it was more a contented one than a disgruntled one.
My smile spread. “I know.”
She twisted until her eyes locked onto mine. I couldn’t breathe when she looked at me that way. I’ve never been able to when those blue eyes of hers held the emotion they were capable of. I was just leaning in to cover her mouth with mine when her hand pressed into the side of my neck, stalling me.
“I’m glad you don’t.”
“I know,” I replied. “Me too.” I held my smile for another second before my mouth dropped to hers. Rowen sighed again, and before I gave my body permission, I’d shifted until I was holding my weight above her. The pace of our kissing never slowed.
Her hands moved for the buckle of my belt at the same time mine moved for the hem of her shirt. Rowen was kissing me, touching me, and loving me in all the ways I could ever want to be loved. She was expressing her love in ways I’d never even known existed the first five years of my life.
She’s love in human form, and even though I could tell she was still half-asleep and I was exhausted, I made love to her. We went slow and locked on to every touch like it was our first time all over again. When I moved inside of her, our combined sighs filled the room. And when our breathing turned into something heavier, I felt her unspoken words in her touch. She’d never loved, or never could love, anyone like she loved me.
Rowen Sterling consumed me.
Chapter Two
IT WASN’T EVEN seven in the morning, and I was smiling. Actually, I was almost beaming.
I’d never been big on that whole “exuberant facial expression” thing. And then I met Jesse Walker. And now I beam at quarter to seven in the morning. I put all blame on him because I didn’t think about it when he was around—smiling, that is—it’s just something I’m simply incapable of not doing when he was close by. I’d fondly nicknamed it the Jesse Walker Smile Curse.
SOMETIMES LOVE WAS about compromise, and sometimes it was about sacrifice. Most times, it was a little of both. I’d learned that the trial-and-error way.
One other thing I’d learned the trial-and-error way? I didn’t care how much I had to compromise or sacrifice to be with Rowen Sterling. I’d do whatever I could to make her happy. To let her live her dreams. To feel fulfilled. To recognize she was so damn special to me, I ached—a deep, throbbing pain—whenever we were apart.
She was sacred to me.
I made it a priority to treat her as such. That’s why I was on my second energy drink and had both windows in Old Bessie cranked down despite the near-freezing temperature.
It was Friday night. Scratch that. It was early, early Saturday morning . . . and I was heading west. Rowen didn’t like me driving eight hours after a full day of ranch detail. Well, she didn’t like me driving any distance in Old Bessie period, so we’d made one of those all-important compromises and settled on me leaving Saturday mornings for my monthly trips to Seattle.
One problem with that.
I wasn’t willing to sacrifice a night with her, so I’d never really gone along with that compromise. I’d sacrificed sleep and pushed through exhaustion to get to her Saturday morning on every one of the six trips I’d made.
See? Sacrifice and compromise around every relationship corner.
She’d always grumble a little and try to pretend she was all put out I’d risked life and limb to get to her twenty hours sooner than planned, but one smile and shrug from me melted that act. She was a sucker for my smile. It got to her. Every. Single. Time. I wasn’t above admitting I’d used that knowledge to my advantage when I found myself heading into deep-ish water with her. A smile, a shrug, and a shimmy, and she was putty in my hands.
Before anyone goes and thinks I’m not playing the love game fair, let me get it on record that I am—one hundred and twenty percent of the time—putty in Rowen Sterling’s hands. No matter what she does, or what facial expression she makes, or what words she chooses, my steady state around her is putty. Pliable, gooey putty. I never thought I’d be so damn happy to be a glorified form of Play-Doh in a girl’s hands. Life’s ironies, right?
As I’m reaching for my third and last energy drink, I see my exit in the distance. As bushed as I am, I perk up instantly. I’ve driven that route enough to know Rowen’s apartment is fifteen minutes away. Ten minutes if I really push Old Bessie to her upper limits. I pushed her to those upper limits every time, and so far, Old Bessie had never failed me.
I passed the sprawling community college Rowen attended. I’d walked around the campus with her a few times. It’s a nice school, and the art building where she basically lives when she’s not working is impressive, even to someone like myself, who didn’t know the difference between Monet and Manet until a certain impassioned someone took it upon herself to school me in art history. I’d learned more about art than anyone would guess some cowboy from Montana knew.
I loved that about Rowen. I loved that about us.
We took normal, average, and what was expected . . . and turned it upside down. We didn’t do anything just because that was what society expected. We held to our own standards and didn’t worry about meeting the expectations of some nameless majority.
By the time I pulled onto Rowen’s street, I’d hit fifty miles per hour. I didn’t even try to ease off the gas. I knew from previous attempts that trying to hold back would be a wasted effort. When I was that close to having Rowen in my arms, I couldn’t pull back. When she was that close, I couldn’t get to her fast enough.
Old Bessie practically got air when I pulled into the apartment complex’s entrance. As I whipped through the complex’s old buildings—that had enough wear and tear to look even older—I took note of every burnt-out light lining the sidewalk to Rowen’s building.
She didn’t have a car. She didn’t do public transportation, except for the Greyhound bus she took once a month to come to Montana. What mode of transportation did my girlfriend choose to use in rainy, traffic-ridden Seattle?
A bike.
Yep, an old, single-gear bike she’d found at the apartment complex a week after she moved in. It made me uneasy in every way a guy could be. Every time I thought of her peddling to school or the funky doughnut shop she worked at that wasn’t exactly on the low-crime side of town, I wanted to buy her a bus pass or a reliable little Honda.
She’d refused all of my suggestions about some kind, any kind, of transportation other than a bike. She was adamant I was being ridiculous. I was adamant she was being just as ridiculous. So what did I do when she thought she was right and I thought I was just as right?
I let it go.
Rowen rode a bike in a part of Seattle that made my stomach clench into knots when I thought about it. There was no compromise there. I had to sacrifice what I wanted for what she wanted, because ultimately, no one could control another person. The harder one tried, the more the other slipped through their fingers. I wasn’t going to let Rowen slip through mine by being a controlling, overbearing caveman.
I couldn’t and—perhaps what was more essential—I wouldn’t control her. So I controlled the few things I could when it came to her chosen mode of transportation. Like tending to burnt-out streetlights on the sidewalk to her apartment. Or checking her tires. Or greasing the chain. Or making sure she kept the can of mace I’d given her the day she’d moved-in in the side pocket of her backpack. I took care of the things I could control and didn’t waste my time trying to control the things I couldn’t.
It was an easier concept to accept than it was to execute.
Whipping into the first empty parking space I found, I didn’t even bother grabbing my duffel bag from the bed of the truck. I almost forgot to turn off the engine and remove the keys from the ignition. Jogging to Rowen’s first floor apartment, I fumbled with my key chain. She’d given me a spare key after clearing it with her roommate, Alex. I’d been relieved to discover Alex was short for Alexandria. Again, if Rowen had chosen to live with a male roommate, that wasn’t something I could control. I wouldn’t have liked it, but I trusted her.
Trust wasn’t just something I gave someone; it was something they had to prove. And Rowen had proven it again and again.
Alex worked at the same doughnut shop Rowen did. She’d helped Rowen get the job there and, since it was a Friday night, she wouldn’t come through the front door until the sun had come up. Alex lived life like it was going out of style, and weekends and all of the limitless adventures they held were not to be wasted.
After unlocking the door, I stepped inside and closed the door noiselessly. All of the lights were out except for the lava lamp bubbling in the window. The apartment was about the size of a shoe box, but Rowen and Alex had made good use of the space. Once I’d slipped off my boots at the door, I padded through the cubby-sized kitchen and headed for Rowen’s bedroom.
She always burned a vanilla candle when she was drawing or painting or molding or whatever other medium she was hard at work on, and I could still smell it. I’d associated with that smell with coming home, with finding my way back to her.
Her door was cracked open, like she knew I’d be showing up and was waiting for me. I slipped inside and leaned into the wall. Rowen wasn’t even ten feet in front of me, asleep in one of my white shirts that looked like a dress on her, her sheet tangled around her legs. I froze for a moment and just let myself . . . admire her.
That girl, that woman, was mine. And even though that was a hallmark I was intensely proud of, I was more sure and proud of something else.
I was hers.
It wasn’t a question. It had never been an option. It was something set into motion the day the universe was created, and thousands of years later, there we were. We’d found each other. I was hers, she was mine, we were each other’s. It was powerful stuff that hit me in moments like that. I knew it was the kind of profoundness that would get me labeled as a whipped sap, and I didn’t give a damn.
If people wanted to call me a whipped sap because I loved—loved—the girl lying in front of me, then bring it on.
After another minute, that ache of separation reminded me of its presence. Watching and musing time was over; I needed to be close to her. My need to be with her became so urgent I didn’t bother to slip out of my jeans. I just lowered onto the bed and slid across the mattress until every inch of me was curved around every inch of her. One arm slipped beneath her as the other one wrapped around her. I breathed the first full breath I’d taken since I’d said good-bye two weeks ago when she left Montana.
My intention wasn’t to wake her, but she always did, almost like she was waiting for me in her dreams. “You weren’t supposed to be here for another twenty hours,” she said in a sleep heavy voice. “Sleep deprivation. Falling asleep at the wheel. I like you alive and in one piece.”
I smiled and pressed my face into the curve of her neck. I inhaled, taking her in, and exhaled, letting her go. “I know.” I tightened my arms to feel her more solidly in them.
“You never listen to me.” She sighed, and it was more a contented one than a disgruntled one.
My smile spread. “I know.”
She twisted until her eyes locked onto mine. I couldn’t breathe when she looked at me that way. I’ve never been able to when those blue eyes of hers held the emotion they were capable of. I was just leaning in to cover her mouth with mine when her hand pressed into the side of my neck, stalling me.
“I’m glad you don’t.”
“I know,” I replied. “Me too.” I held my smile for another second before my mouth dropped to hers. Rowen sighed again, and before I gave my body permission, I’d shifted until I was holding my weight above her. The pace of our kissing never slowed.
Her hands moved for the buckle of my belt at the same time mine moved for the hem of her shirt. Rowen was kissing me, touching me, and loving me in all the ways I could ever want to be loved. She was expressing her love in ways I’d never even known existed the first five years of my life.
She’s love in human form, and even though I could tell she was still half-asleep and I was exhausted, I made love to her. We went slow and locked on to every touch like it was our first time all over again. When I moved inside of her, our combined sighs filled the room. And when our breathing turned into something heavier, I felt her unspoken words in her touch. She’d never loved, or never could love, anyone like she loved me.
Rowen Sterling consumed me.
Chapter Two
IT WASN’T EVEN seven in the morning, and I was smiling. Actually, I was almost beaming.
I’d never been big on that whole “exuberant facial expression” thing. And then I met Jesse Walker. And now I beam at quarter to seven in the morning. I put all blame on him because I didn’t think about it when he was around—smiling, that is—it’s just something I’m simply incapable of not doing when he was close by. I’d fondly nicknamed it the Jesse Walker Smile Curse.
