Me:
How’re the crops doing?
Fitz:
Nothing new to report
Me:
Did you take Dolly out?
Fitz:
Every day like clockwork
With time, maybe he’ll open up. Or not. Getting to know each other is part of our arrangement, but I guess sharing his dreams and inner demons isn’t. I try to see that as a benefit to our co-parenting relationship. Simple, clear boundaries. No worries about romantic entanglements.
That is, until I drive up to the ranch and see Fitz in a cowboy hat, hip-hugging denim, and a worn chambray shirt. The sight of his muscled frame and rugged, handsome face under the brim of his hat ignites a fizzy flight of butterflies in my belly.
And when he hugs me and I take in his pine and salty scent, I want to mount him and lick his neck.
Pregnancy hormones are no joke.
I’ve barely seen him in passing when I’ve come up to the ranch to meet with the architect and file plans with the planning office, so this is our first real chunk of time together. Our first friend date. I’m a little nervous to spend the afternoon with Fitz. Even though it always feels so easy with him, there’s so much we still don’t know about each other. What if, after he gets to know me, he doesn’t like me?
But when I find him sitting on his porch waiting for me with a sweet iced tea in his hands, all worry disappears. He looks so comfortable that it makes me comfortable.
“How was the drive?” His jeans stretch over his strong thighs, and his iced tea glints in the sunlight. I feel thirsty, but I think I just want to drinkhim.
“Easy. Quick.”
“Good.”
He leads me through his house to a sweeping back porch. The view from there is stunning, highlighting the symmetry of the fruit orchards stretching for acres and the lush gardens immediately behind the house. Unlike my ramshackle place, his ranch gleams in the sun with its freshly painted trim, manicured lawns, neat flower beds, orderly paddocks, and the scent of lavender drifting in the air.
A stone path leads to the barn, and I have no doubt Fitz had a hand in designing the flow from the gardens to the work area with tidy benches and gardening tools.
“This is so beautiful,” I say.
“Glad you like it.” Fitz tries to suppress a smile, but I see his pride. His eyes roam over my face, landing on my lips. For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. My pulse quickens, and I feel warm.
“You look beautiful. Pregnancy agrees with you,” he says. It feels like a compliment but also like something a mother might say.
I swallow down a flicker of desire. “Thank you.”
He looks at me a moment longer, but then his gaze returns to the landscape splayed out in front of us like a watercolor painting.
“Thought you might like some inspiration. Your place could look like this. Takes some work—a lot of work—but you’ll get there.”
I laugh. “I think you’re overestimating me. I kill houseplants.”
“Shh, don’t say that in front of the garden down there.” He points at the perfect rows of native flowers.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it,” I tell the plants.
“There we go. Baby steps.”
“Is that what we’re doing today, cowboy? Gardening?”