My Bluegrass Baby (13 page)

The music ended with a flourish and Josh bowed over my hand. “I should have chosen
a better dancer for my pretend wife.”

“Be nice,” I told him, “or your pretend wife will develop a sudden case of the vapors
and you will be left to fend for yourself.”

Josh cast a nervous glance over my shoulder, where I assumed Pink Dress Lady was still
ogling him, and shuddered. “I take it back, you’re a lovely dancer. Please don’t leave
me.”

•   •   •

We crawled out of Bonnie’s van, exhausted and disheveled. But because the locals were
accustomed to the reenactments, three Civil War soldiers and three women in varying
stages of period undress wandering into the motel lobby didn’t merit a second look.
Bonnie and Kelsey had elected to share a room this time around, so I was left with
a single. The group had been assigned to random floors of the Easy Rest Inn, so we
split up at the front desk. Josh and I were in the same wing, on the third floor,
and limped our way to our doors side by side.

“I’m going to shower forever,” I grumbled, swaying a bit from exhaustion and the influence
of the cider. “I smell like a combination of campfire and fry bread.”

“You know, I think that’s a combination that could work for a lot of guys. The outdoor,
he-man types could be into it,” he said, sniffing my hair appreciatively. “Maybe we
could bottle it and call it Blue Moon Babe.”

“That’s incredibly wrong on many levels. Get your face out of my hair. I don’t remember
anything in the pretend-marriage agreement about hair smelling.”

“So this was fun,” he told me as we rolled to a stop in front of my room. “I’m starting
to understand why you love going on these outings.”

I grinned at him. “I’m glad . . . that I’ve pulled you over to the dark side. The
rumor is we have cookies.”

He barked out a laugh. “Good night, Florence.”

“Good night.” And once again, we found ourselves in the awkward position of not knowing
how to bid each other good-bye. Did nondating coworkers shake hands in situations
like this? (
Were
there other situations like this?) Did we one-arm hug? I stared at him, the curve
of his mouth, the way his eyes never left my face. I forced myself to lean away from
him, to take a step back. I would not do this. I would not engage in inappropriate
behavior with Josh when he was dressed like an extra from
Gone with the Wind
. At a semi-work function. Just a few yards away from our soon-to-retire boss, who
expected to leave the office in one set of our capable hands. I hadn’t had
that
much cider. I gave him a perfunctory smile while I jiggled my key card into the digital
lock. “Good night.”

I practically launched myself through the motel room door, closing it so fast that
I barely registered Josh’s hurried “Good night!” I leaned my forehead against the
door, thumping it against the map of emergency exits.

I was making the right choice, the smart choice. Josh and I had agreed about this
waiting thing. And I had no doubt that screaming his name in my orgasm voice would
give him quite a bit of leverage in this strange battle of wills we had going. I didn’t
know if we really liked each other or if it was just our weird creative natures combined
with the thrill of competition creating these intense situations. We had heat and
chemistry, but so did most nuclear reactors, and I tried to stay away from those whenever
possible.

But still, I was all keyed up, with no place to go. Okay, yes, dragging Josh into
my room and stripping that uniform off him with my teeth might have proven awkward
around the office next week, but being left wondering “What if?” seemed so much worse
now. I was horny, frustrated, and wearing about four articles of underwear I wouldn’t
be able to remove by myself. Maybe I should call Josh back here. I would need his
sword to hack my way out of this corset.

Flopping onto the scratchy polyblend motel comforter, I took off my white cap, rubbing
at the pressure marks the pins had left in my scalp. I kicked off my pointed black
shoes and had begun my wrestling match with the apron when I heard a knock at my door.

I looked through the peephole to see Josh bouncing on his heels in the hallway. “What
the—” I opened the door. Josh opened his mouth long enough to say, “I—” and suddenly
that mouth was on mine, kissing, nibbling, biting, until I sagged against him. His
lips were just as soft as they looked and he tasted like cider and smoke.

“Waiting?” I asked, breathless. “Professional integrity?”

“Screw it,” he growled, fumbling with my apron. I wrapped my fingers around the collar
of his coat and dragged him inside. His fingers plucked at the knot at my waist, tossing
the apron aside. I felt like I was suffocating under all these layers. He ripped open
the back of the dress with a yank, sending buttons skittering across the motel room’s
nubby green carpet. I pushed the heavy blue jacket from his shoulders, taking time
to appreciate the way his linen shirt fit across his broad, built chest. This was
so much better than any historical romance novel could ever be, because this was real,
and for the moment, he was mine.

Insistent fingers at the stays of my corset brought me back to the moment. The laces
had gotten tangled and knotted over the course of the day and Josh was tugging at
them like a frustrated kid with stubborn shoelaces. The more he pulled on the stays,
the harder it was for me to breathe.

“Go get the sword!” I wheezed. Josh, who had apparently left the sword in his room,
patted his pockets and produced a Swiss Army knife. With mental apologies to Kelsey,
I leaned back and let him slice through the stays. I gulped in deep, greedy breaths
as my ribs expanded fully for the first time all day. The sense of release was incredible,
the rush of blood back to its proper place creating a full, dizzying rush of sensation
that only helped Josh’s cause.

“Oh, thank goodness, I had no idea how I was going to get out of this thing on my
own.”

“Well, I’m glad to serve some purpose,” he snickered, nuzzling my neck.

He sat on the bed, positioning my legs between his, and began unwrapping me like a
present—first the corset, then the shift. I was a bit worried, considering the heat
and hard work of the day, but Kelsey had taken the time to launder the underclothes
with lavender water before she gave them to me. So the more he removed, the more the
sweet floral scent wafted up from my skin. He paused when he found the frilly white
bloomers underneath that counted as my underwear.

“Those are way hotter than they should be,” he breathed, stroking the lace and ruffles
at my rear reverently before pressing a kiss above the drawstring, just under my bellybutton.

“The truth finally comes out,” I said, noting that look of panic he shot me. “You
have an antique underwear fetish.”

“When you’re wearing them, yes.” His hands gently skimmed up the back of my thighs
and squeezed lightly before he slipped his finger in the opening of the pantaloons.
He dragged his thumb over wet, warm flesh. I gasped and he pressed harder, working
in small, tight circles until my knees went watery and I collapsed against him. He
tumbled back on the bed, dragging me with him, all the while keeping his hand working.
I hovered over him, barely brushing over the growing bulge in his pants as he pulled
me into his lap.

He reached up and shook my hair loose, grinning as it fluttered against his face.
Meanwhile, I was struggling with the series of suspenders and fasteners on his pants.
I could not figure out how to get him out of his pants! There was no zipper, no buttons,
no instructions. Shouldn’t trousers like this come with instructions?

“Get the pocket knife!” I grunted as he flipped us over and wriggled out of the blue
wool prison. I let out a giggle as he gave the pants a final yank and shimmied out
of them. We crawled up the bed, naked—and oh God, we were really going to do this.
I couldn’t help feeling terrified, but on the verge of ecstatic, girly squeals.

I combed my fingers through his hair, sliding my feet along the lines of his thighs.
He sank into me, pressing his mouth to mine, surprising me by staring right into my
eyes as he slid in to the hilt. I made an embarrassingly breathy little sound in my
throat because—damn. Damn, it had been a long time since I’d done this. He sighed,
tilting his forehead against mine as I adjusted. I hitched my leg over his hip, anchoring
him to me as he moved. His hips shifted forward at just the right angle and I yelped
a bit, throwing my head back.

I kissed the little divot in his chin, biting gently at the curve of flesh. I groaned,
nuzzling his neck. His hands clutched at my hips and I was sure I would have fingerprint
bruises the next morning. But part of me was looking forward to it, to some evidence
that this really happened. This wasn’t some crazy, home-brewed-cider-induced hallucination.

He slid his hand under my back, fanning his fingers over my tailbone and holding me
secure while he slid home again. I’m not sure what I’d expected of Josh, probably
a bit more anger and thrown furniture, but we seemed to be savoring each other. As
if we both knew this was probably going to be the only opportunity we had before the
commissioner made his decision or one of us lost patience with the other.

I could feel everything. The scratchy motel sheets against my skin. The bite of his
fingernails against my hip. The tight, coiling pressure that had me so slick and hypersensitive
inside. I was so close, but didn’t want to end this way, writhing on my back like
some recently deflowered waif. So I rolled, crouching over him and rolling my hips
until I saw his eyelids flutter. He clutched at my hips, grinding me against him until
that last bit of distance from the edge became falling over and plummeting. I clutched
at Josh’s shoulders, sure I was leaving deep claw marks in my wake. Through the pulsing
waves of sensation, I felt him bend his head to my breast. He gently bit the skin
over my heart, as if he could leave his mark, making it impossible to forget the moment
I completely lost control.

•   •   •

I woke up around 2 a.m. to find him still there, still wrapped around me with his
fingers curled around my hip. His face was buried in my hair and I could barely feel
the warmth of his mouth against my neck. This was nice, sharing a bed with someone—knowing
that at least one person knew and cared that you were tucked away safe for the night.
How long had it been since I’d done something as simple and intimate as sharing sleeping
space with someone?

Years, I realized. I’d cuddled up with a drunken one-night-mistake in a narrow dorm-room
bed and slept like a baby. Since then, I’d been careful to get up and get dressed
before I or my date had the chance to nod off. That probably said much more about
my taste in boyfriends than anything else.

Still, this was nice. I doubted that it would last. For all of Josh’s insistence that
we would attempt to date after the fair, I just didn’t see how our feelings could
stay the same when one of us had what we wanted and one didn’t. But for the moment,
I would let myself enjoy this. I smiled to myself, turning to him and pressing my
face against the warm skin of his shoulder, and went back to sleep.

•   •   •

Josh was gone the next morning, and for a second, I thought I had dreamt the whole
thing. Until I swung my legs out of bed and felt the smooth, round buttons of my nurse’s
uniform loose on the carpet. And, of course, there was the strange Jell-O sensation
in my legs when I tried to stand. Ow.

Note to self: have sex more than every few years. I leaned against the dresser and
chewed my lip, considering the damage we’d done to my clothes, my skin.

I felt like I’d fallen victim to an interoffice booty call. While I wanted to interpret
this as Josh being sensible and not wanting to be seen doing the Walk of Shame from
my room by our coworkers, I knew it wasn’t a good sign that he hadn’t woken me up
before he left. I was 90 percent sure it didn’t mean, “I will love you forever. Would
you like to meet my mom?” I guessed this meant he’d reconsidered the whole dating
thing. Because I was pretty sure that when you attached some sort of emotion to sex,
you actually stuck around the morning after.

I tried to bite back my disappointment, though it stuck in my throat like a stone.
I had no one to blame for hurt feelings but myself. I was a big girl. I’d made the
decision to pull him into my room. I’d stripped him out of that uniform like it was
my job. I’d taken the ride and come Monday morning, I would pay the awkward price.

I wobbled a little on my unsteady legs as I made my way to the bathroom and couldn’t
repress the slightly smug smile on my face.

It was still a pretty good ride.

In Which Murdering Kelsey Seems Like a Viable Option

9

Pulling on yoga pants and a hoodie after the corset experience and the hip bruises
was absolute bliss. I managed to put myself together enough for the drive home in
Bonnie’s van, adding a few accessories and a huge pair of Jackie O sunglasses. At
least, I thought I looked presentable until I wheeled my little suitcase out to the
van and Kelsey got a look at me.

“Oh my God, you had sex,” she gasped, nearly dropping her cell phone, which would
have seriously disrupted the text message she was typing.

“What? How would you . . . ? What?” I spluttered.

Kelsey’s jaw dropped as she yanked my scarf—a floral linen affair that had been stuffed
in the corner of my overnight bag after a previous trip—away from my neck. “You have
a hickey, you big hussy!”

“Who are you texting at this time of the morning?” I asked, pulling the light linen
floral print back into place. “And that’s not a hickey.”

“Why else would you be wearing a scarf in fricking July? And don’t change the subject,”
she snapped.

I chewed on my lip, trying to think of a plausible explanation. I fell on a circular
hairbrush. I’d been hit by a high-powered Ping-Pong ball. It was an experiment with
a new makeup technique. Unfortunately, Kelsey was not, in fact, an idiot and wouldn’t
believe any of it. I sighed. “I’m blaming the cider.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Because apple juice makes you want to do the dirty?”

“One-hundred-proof apple juice does.”

Kelsey burst out laughing, the mischievous glint in her eyes making me distinctly
nervous. “Sadie, that wasn’t hard cider we were drinking last night. The encampments
are booze free to keep them family friendly, remember?”

And suddenly, I did remember. So why had I felt so silly and off-kilter the night
before? Why had I been so quick to jump on the idea of being “tipsy” and not in control
of my impulses? “Damn it.”

“So did you meet someone after we came back to the motel? Who was it? That cute fiddle
player from the band? The glassblower? Was he able to put those strong pouty lips
to good use? . . . Oh, no!” Kelsey cried. “We agreed that you would not have sex with
Josh unless it was my day in the pool!”

“How did you guess— When did we agree to that?”

“It was an unspoken agreement,” she insisted, shaking my arms, which wasn’t helping
the whole sex-soreness issue. “And I guessed because of that frozen ‘trying to find
a way to tell Kelsey upsetting news’ face you make when you’re about to disappoint
me. Seriously, Sadie, I don’t think you’re ready for anything Vaughn is going to dish
out. He’s a classic nail-and-bailer. And you’re sort of a prude. You’re going to get
all emotionally involved and he’ll be throwing his clothes back on and texting his
next ‘appointment.’ And then the rest of us at the office will be treated to the awkwardness
that is post-breakup Sadie.”

“You’ve never dealt with post-breakup Sadie.”

“And that’s what scares me. Developing squishy feelings for the person who could end
up being your boss is not a good idea. You know this. Hell, you led our office sexual
harassment training on this. And let’s not even discuss the fact that he may be just
trying to distract you from working on your campaign so he can swipe the job out from
under you.”

“So the only way I could get a guy to date me is if he were trying to literally screw
me out of a job?”

“No, you know I don’t feel that way. I just . . . I worry about you, Sadie. You glide
along, acting like everything is okay, when we both know you take this stuff so seriously
that it makes you physically ill.”

“What happened to all of your sympathy for Josh?”

“I wasn’t worried about Josh. I was worried about you and your bad decisions.”

“I’m fine. I’m a big girl. I’m not going to let this get out of control. And if I
do, you will be the first person I will accept an ‘I told you so’ from.”

“You know I don’t do that,” she said, patting my shoulder. “Not without the proper
backup music. But I will mock you in the moment. Hell, I plan on mocking you on the
way home.”

I dropped my face into my hands and groaned. I heard approaching footsteps and realized
that Charlie, Ray, Josh, and Bonnie were joining us in the caravan of discomfort.

Kelsey patted my shoulder. “You know, I was kind of bummed that I forgot my cell phone
charger and have no entertainment. But I am really looking forward to the long van
ride home, aren’t you?”

“You are not my favorite person right now.”

I looked up to see Ray watching me, carefully, a wrinkle of worry forming between
his brows. Josh seemed to be making a concerted effort not to look at me, which was
more than a little upsetting. So I focused on tucking my luggage away and not blurting
out anything embarrassing.

I blushed furiously as I tried to step up into the van and faltered, those stupid
strained muscles preventing me from climbing into the back row of seats. I hissed
and Josh’s head whipped toward me. Charlie solicitously offered his hand and helped
me up. “Walking around in period shoes has us all sore,” he assured me.

Kelsey snickered, and I smacked the back of her head as Charlie boosted me into the
van. She glared back at me but I went all innocent doe eyes on her. “Muscle spasm.”

Josh climbed into the front row of seats and cast a glance over his shoulder toward
me. I slid my sunglasses over my eyes and hid. I didn’t know how to respond, but it
wouldn’t be like a high school girl upset that her boyfriend didn’t sit next to her
in study hall. I would hold my head high. I would behave like an adult, an independent,
progressive woman who did not assume that an evening of naked gymnastics equaled guaranteed
lifelong commitment. I would stop blushing because it seemed to make Kelsey giggle.

Kelsey was getting on my last damn nerve.

“If anybody wants some more of that apple cider, I bought some for the trip home,”
Ray offered.

I groaned and covered my face with my scarf.

“Best. Trip. Ever.” Kelsey sighed.

•   •   •

We seemed to have decided not to talk about it. Or at least, Josh had decided not
to talk about it and I didn’t want to be the one to start that conversation. If I
refused to bring it up, then he would assume I was just as emotionally well adjusted
(read: shut off) as he was, so he didn’t have to worry about me breaking into his
office to steal his Facebook password.

For a week, we both pretended to be just fine. We remained calm and cordial, but we
only talked about work-related matters. Our previous playful banter was all but forgotten.
There were a couple of days when I wondered whether the sex had actually happened,
which was pretty damn irritating. I did not enjoy sexual gaslighting.

And
this
is why people should not sleep with coworkers. But I would never admit that to Kelsey,
because her “I told you so” sometimes involves singing and complicated choreography.

My feelings about Josh were a big murky mess. I tried to figure out what I’d done
wrong, and then I realized I hadn’t. I hadn’t done anything wrong. You know, other
than sleeping with a coworker, which was frowned upon. But I hadn’t been clingy. I
hadn’t started naming our unborn children the moment he took off his pants. I’d behaved
like an adult. If Josh was upset about something, he could talk about it with me like
a big boy. If not, well, that was on him.

To my disappointment, emotional maturity wasn’t any more fun than being a hypersensitive
drama queen. My feelings were still hurt. Work was still awkward. But I held my head
high and behaved professionally, with the exception of smacking Kelsey every time
she mentioned the words “apples” or “cider.”

We were days away from moving into the Louisville Stay Inn, where we would be staying
during our weeklong state fair stint. My “Not What You Expect” campaign had gelled
beautifully. I’d checked and double-checked the proofs for my brochures and guides,
then hand-delivered my copies to the printer. Just in case Josh had called off the
truce without telling me. So other than my general uncertainty, things were looking
pretty good for me.

The Kentucky State Fair was a great mix of fun and function for our office, clearing
our schedule for a week in mid-August so we could provide support at the fair headquarters.
More than half a million people visited the fairgrounds each year to ride their way
through the Thrillway and mill through the exhibition halls displaying foods produced
and prepared in Kentucky, handmade arts and crafts, and prize-winning animals and
plants. And of course, gorge themselves silly on foods on a stick.

My staff usually worked a good portion of the morning before we were relieved by staff
from other departments within the tourism office. Kelsey and I would run a little
wild, dieting scrupulously for weeks before the fair so we could devour every deep-fried
food we could find. I had no idea they could deep-fry Coca-Cola. Sometimes Angela
joined us, but she had a lower tolerance for stomach-challenging cuisine and thrill
rides.

And of course, I felt obligated to visit the Kentucky Cookout Tent, a large food venue
sponsored by the state’s producers of pork, corn, poultry, and mutton. It was like
a culinary tour of Kentucky on a plate. Kelsey always made fun of the fact that I
overordered to prevent hurting the farmers’ feelings. Was it difficult to eat country
ham, corn on the cob, barbecued chicken halves, and mutton in one sitting? Yes, but
I didn’t want to play favorites.

We usually stopped by the horticulture displays to see Mr. Leavitt. Having stomped
homemakers into annual submission at our local county fair with his rose and azalea
specimens, Mr. Leavitt progressed to trying to make old lady gardeners cry on a state
level. He’d won blue ribbons every year since I’d known him.

Kelsey’s My Little Pony fantasies ran amuck at the World’s Champion Horse Show in
Freedom Hall. While there were some divisions for harness horses, the show was more
about making the mounts and their riders as pretty as possible and showing the purity
of the bloodlines. Kelsey also seemed to have some unresolved 4-H issues, because
she was unnaturally interested in the agriculture displays. Personally, I thought
if you’ve seen one impressively bred cow, you’ve seen them all. But she didn’t judge
my need to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl over and over, so it worked for us.

This year, we had to put our fun off until after I’d set up my campaign display tent.
Ray had declared Kelsey “Switzerland,” forbidding her from helping either of us. Instead,
I was using the fairgrounds crew to set up the tables and hang banner racks. Hanging
up the actual banners and posters, draping the tablecloths, and unpacking the various
freebies was my job and mine alone. I was also responsible for mounting my own flat-panel
TVs and stuffing my own goody bags. I was giving away tote bags filled with pens bearing
the tourism commission’s Web address, an awesome book titled
Weird Things You Didn’t Know About Kentucky
, and custom bingo cards listing some of the strange highlights of the state’s year-round
calendar.

By the time we arrived at the fairgrounds on the morning before opening day, the weather
was blazing hot, with the sort of sticky humidity that had my clothes plastered to
my body before I got to my car. I arrived at our tenting area between the midway and
the main pavilion building to find both of the exhibition tents closed up tight. Our
position relative to the rides guaranteed foot traffic would wind past us as people
worked their way toward the exhibition halls.

The shipping crates marked
HUTCHINS
were waiting outside my tent, mummified in their plastic-wrap cocoons. Josh’s crates
were similarly stacked outside of his tent. I barely resisted the urge to slice through
the plastic wrap and look inside. When I saw Josh coming down the midway, I yanked
the Velcro flap enclosures apart and ducked inside my tent. I dragged my crates inside
and cracked them open, repressing the urge to squeal when I saw my materials.

The printer had used a bold blue to stretch “Kentucky—Not What You Expect” in elegant,
scrawling text across my banners. Using Kelsey and her amazing image-manipulation
skills, I tried to turn all of the traditional images on their ears. The photos ranged
from women in fancy tea hats eating messy barbecue to grizzled old-timers in overalls
quaffing mint juleps on a palatial porch. We used a picture of all of the state colleges’
mascots playing poker—using every marker in my big book of favors to get all of those
costumes in the same room. We had a shot of three jockeys in their crisp, colorful
silks fishing from a rowboat at Kentucky Dam. We had a big, happy dual family photo
from the Hatfield-McCoy Reunion Marathon. We even used a picture of Josh in his Civil
War uniform, texting on his smartphone. I tried a mix of the old and the new, the
strange and the sublime.

Thanks to Kelsey, the visuals were great. The storyboards for the ads popped. The
brochures gave all of the right information in a cool format. It was good. This wasn’t
desperation or hubris talking. It was a solid campaign, visually interesting and memorable.
The problem was that I didn’t know if Josh’s was
more
interesting and memorable. I had a good view across the fairway and could see a steady
flow of traffic of staff going into Josh’s tent with pretty heavy equipment. I groaned.
Knowing my luck, Josh had found some corporate diamond sponsor and secured an air-conditioned
luxury tent with a pool.

I wanted Josh to do well, but I wanted to do better. Then again, if he got the job,
I would stay at the office. I was comfortable working with Josh; it was the personal
stuff that confused the hell out of me. And while I wouldn’t be happy continuing on
as an assistant, I knew that I would continue to do good work. However, I was pretty
sure that if I got the job, Josh would leave. His dream was to open up his own marketing
firm, not to work for the state, supervised by some insane woman with way too much
interest in oversize fiberglass objects.