Rider’s Block

27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter twenty-seven

"I Don't Dance" Lee Brice

T urns out working with Eric on my book is going to be an issue.

It’s too good.

He’s too helpful, makes suggestions that are too correct, and the proximity in which we work is way, waaayyy too nice feeling. And our rhythm? Too in sync. Flows too well.

The schedule we’ve haphazardly fallen into feels a little too well-rehearsed, too established, like we’ve been doing it for years. Years! Not two weeks.

I wake up this Thursday morning knowing exactly what’s going to happen.

I’ll go to my front door and find a small treat of some kind with a motivational sticky note. Not too cheesy, not too pushy. Just right. After consuming the treat of the day, I’ll sit down to record my notes and have them transcribed with my nifty little AI assistant Eric set up for me. It will take me a few hours, and by the time I start to get frustrated, somehow Eric will have perfect timing and will waltz through the door with yet another edible treat in hand and talk me off of the ledge I find myself on for the day. We’ll sit down and work through the hiccups, and by the time dinner rolls around he’ll have sorted through the mess that is my brain and translated exactly what I’d intended to write out in the first place. He’ll drive me over to the main house for dinner, but we’ll be the first ones out the door to head back to my cottage and continue working.

But because it’s Thursday, I know that today we’ll likely end up hanging out with everyone roping at the arena.

And that is exactly what happens.

Since my high-speed chase I’ve kept off of a horse, but Eric assures me he’ll get me back on one once my arm’s healed enough. I’m in no way eager to get on a horse again. I’ve fallen off of one twice in my time here. But at the same time, I have this weird, small confidence that I’ve survived two falls already, so it can’t get much worse than that. I mention it to Eric, and he just smiles his stupid cute little smile and says “atta girl” in a way that makes me wonder why I don’t want a fling with this perfect man.

I can also count on the fact that Eric will find a way to stick by my side no matter what setting we’re in. He’ll sometimes be so close that we’re standing shoulder to shoulder or sitting with our thighs pressed together. Four times (yes, I counted) he squeezed my knee under the desk to calm one of my rants that sends me into talking at higher octaves.

So it doesn’t surprise me a bit that he chooses to sit out of this round of recreational roping to stand next to me on the side of the arena. Right next to me. Angled toward me, too. For good measure.

Dean and Trevor are practicing for the rodeo that’s next weekend, and from the way they’re moving tonight there’s no doubt in my mind they’ll place well.

Penny has also started to come to dinner more than twice a week, much to my satisfaction. She and Dean are still dancing around one another, but Dean is keeping to his word and is being less and less subtle about his intentions. Penny’s breaking down night by night and I’m living for it. I’ve never seen such a full speed ahead approach, and I applaud the man for it. I’ve told Dean this a million times, and his answer is always the same: “I’ll do it forever.” Penny doesn’t stand a chance.

Christine has kept to herself a bit more, but my suspicions are increasing with each dinner I don’t see her drink alcohol. She looks a little pale at times, but if she gets the same kind of motion sickness my sister-in-law gets then she’s in for a rough couple of months.

I’ve tried to keep it to myself, but I can’t believe that no one else has noticed. They have to, right? Looking to the most observant person I know, who just so happens to already be leaning toward me in a way that makes it easy to whisper, I let out the question I’ve been dying to ask.

“Eric, do you think Christine and Trevor are hiding something?”

“What do you mean?” He’s tipped his head so close to me that I can feel his breath hit my ear.

“Have you seen Christine drink a beer in a while?” The medley of emotions that cross over Eric’s face is like its own miniature movie. Contemplation, a little bit of shock, and then the joy that blossoms is so fucking cute I find myself beaming at him.

“No shit, you think the first baby Randall is on the way?”

“I have my suspicions.”

“The no beer?”

“And she looks a bit queasy all the time. And Trevor’s been a bit of a mother hen recently, don’t you think?”

“He’s always like that. It’s in our blood. But you’re right, she does look a little different. How long do people keep this thing a secret?”

“Usually until the first doctor’s appointment when they can confirm a heartbeat. But the queasiness is a good thing, it normally means things are progressing well.” Eric looks at me and I know he’s wondering why I know all of this. “My brother and his wife had a hard time trying to have kids. I’m pretty familiar with the steps by this point. All kids are blessings.” I feel the ghost of a hand land at my hip, but before I check to see if he did what I think he did, I hear cheering from the arena as Dean and Trevor complete another practice round with ease. Everyone loves to see them succeed.

“Do you need to do anything to prepare for next week?” Eric’s time away from me is usually spent doing things around the ranch or preparing for the next rodeo that’s inevitably around the corner. He’s been focused, but more relaxed recently.

“I’m all set. Got the right perspective this time, but there’s only so much you can plan for when so much of it is up to the animal itself.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything, Red.”

“Why don’t you wear a helmet? I’ve seen other guys do it, I’m just curious why you don’t.”

“Do you want me to?”

The question has me pause. I think the answer here is important, and I can’t immediately pinpoint why. He’s been asking for my opinion on a myriad of things lately, but never when it comes to his competition. “I think it’s up to you, but I think if I were in your shoes and I wanted to keep myself in the best condition to win, I’d like the idea of a helmet.”

He looks out to the arena for a bit, thinking over what I said. “Alright. I’ll get a helmet on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve gotta sign it,” he says as he taps his signature on my red cast.

***

It takes thirty minutes of the drive with me, Christine, and Penny all piled in a truck to drive two hours toward the guys’ rodeo for me to realize that Nancy orchestrated this carpool setup beautifully.

I love these girls. They’ve quickly become some of my best friends, and all of us sitting to go watch a respective Randall brother doing something they love works just a little too well. That sneaky little minx. Every once in a while, I catch her looking at Eric and me at dinner with literal stars in her eyes. Then I’ll watch her shift her gaze over to Penny, and I swear that woman has mastered the twinkle without shedding a tear. It’s poetic really.

Christine is driving, claiming she gets carsick otherwise, and I let her have it for those thirty minutes before I finally break.

“So, Christine, think we should all go out dancing tonight? Maybe I can get some real Pendleton this time, huh?” The blood drains from her face instantly, and I almost feel bad.

“Totally! You know I’m always down to go dancing.”

“Uh-huh. You know, I don’t know if I’ve ever asked this, but as a thank-you for being one of my two cowboy translators”—Penny high-fives me from the backseat, knowing damn well she’s the other side of that equation—“I want to buy you a drink. Or three even! What’s your poison of choice?”

“Oh, no need for that, Mia. You know I don’t mind.”

“I insist. What’s your favorite?” She hesitates for a solid five seconds before I see her shoulders slump marginally. I take pity on her and throw her a bone. “Christine. You haven’t had a lick to drink for three weeks…” She keeps her eyes on the road, but I don’t miss how her hands wring the steering wheel dry. “Is there…is there anything you maybe sort of want to tell us?”

“I’M PREGNANT!” The chorus of squeals that echo throughout the truck is the kind of sound you hope to hear in heaven. Pure joy and bliss as we pepper her with questions about how far along she is, how she’s been feeling, and how she’s preparing for the first little baby Randall.

“I think Nancy suspects too. She’s been dropping small hints. I swear that woman knows everything,” Christine says after she went into great detail about the difficulty of finding a good doctor.

“You’re probably right, but you should ask her about a doctor. I’m sure she’ll get you to the top of any waitlist.”

“I said the same thing, but I think Trevor has visions of a big reveal in mind and doesn’t want to spill the beans early, so if you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate if you two would pretend you don’t know anything until he decides on what kind of surprise announcement he wants to do.”

Penny and I echo our affirmations, and we spend the rest of the time going over the fun minuscule details that seem meaningless, but the idea of going through them together makes them meaningful. By the time we’ve pulled up to the arena we’ve gotten her stroller of choice picked out and nursery theme options for both genders. We’ve even got an outline of a gender-reveal party, and I assure everyone I’ll fly back to the party no matter what. That’s not something I’m going to miss.

Tonight’s arena is entirely indoors, and Penny and I do our best not to fuss over Christine too much and make everything a little too obvious, but it’s fun to poke at her subtly when we walk by the hotdog stand and she can’t keep in her gag. That lands us in a five-minute giggle fit we have to rein in by the time we join Nancy and George in their seats.

Nancy looks at us with that same sparkle, and I try not to let it hit me too hard in the chest.

Eric has been the best friend I’ve ever had, no doubt about it. The time we’ve spent working on my book proves over and over again how well I work with him. But if he wanted anything more, surely, he would have made that clear by now, right?

I mean, sure, I’m the one that put us directly into the friend category, but he could have pushed if he really wanted to. Every action he takes flirts with the line between intentional and romantic.

When I signed his helmet earlier this week, I didn’t add a heart or anything, but I did notice I’m the only signature he has. And yeah, he calls me baby all the time, but at this point it just feels like a general term, not a romantic one. Sort of. It does make my heart skip a beat every time he says it, but that’s on me, not him. I can’t put intentions behind his words that I don’t know. Just because I’m partial to the term doesn’t mean he is.

But if he wanted to be more than friends, there have been ample opportunities to plant one on me that he hasn’t taken. I mean come on, we work together late into the night every single night. Our knees touch, and that gives me heart palpitations, but every night when we go to say goodnight, he simply bids me a good night’s sleep and heads to his own cabin. No lingering for a kiss, no longingly looking at my lips. Respectful, cordial. Fucking friendly, just like I asked for. Dammit.

The change of lighting breaks my train of thought, and the rodeo and all of its glory begins.

I swoon a little over the mutton bustin’, and Christine is gripping my hand by the time team roping rolls around. She had nothing to worry about. Dean and Trevor won by a whole second. Even Penny was out of her seat cheering them on. Eric rode beautifully, helmet and all. Overall, it was a smashing success for the Randall brothers. I’m barely paying attention when the bull riding event ends, and Penny is coordinating us all driving back to our favorite dance hall for celebratory drinks and dancing.

We meet the brothers out back at their trailers, and in a maneuver I’ll forever look back and admire, Penny manages to plant us paired up with our Randall brother of choosing in the available trucks.

“You sure you don’t mind?” Eric looks over at me and asks after it’s determined that he’d be the one to drive the livestock back to the ranch while I keep him company. If the arrangement hadn’t landed Penny and Dean in the same vehicle I would have protested, but for the first time since Dean’s full court press, Penny was the one to elect to spend time with him, and who was I to stand in the way of that?

“Not one bit. I want to help.”

Eric and I spend the two-hour drive talking more about my book. I’m nearly done, and at this point it’s about polishing it off to send to my editor.

“I’m scared,” I finally admit out loud.

“What do you have to be afraid about, Red?”

“It’s been denied fourteen times, Eric. Fourteen! By publishers who have worked with me in the past or tried to poach me. What I submitted originally was so bad it spooked them. For my first book I was resilient to no’s, but this time hurts a little different. I don’t know how to describe it—”

“It’s because there’s an expectation for success, right?” That hadn’t really dawned on me before, but I think he’s right. I tell him as much. “I live with that every day, baby. I couldn’t understand more. But this one is good. Like, really good. I think it’s your best one so far.”

“Eric…have you…have you read my other books?” The smile on my face grows to a megawatt.

“Of course I have,” he says as he looks at me with an indignant face I’m all too familiar with at this point. “I needed to know what I was getting myself into.”

I pinch the arm that’s latched on to the steering wheel. “Which one is your favorite?”

“Easy. Aside from the one we’re working on, your second one is my favorite.”

“The one with the middle school sweethearts? Second-chance romance?”

“That’s the one.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes the first impression isn’t always good. I like to know that you know there’s more behind an asshole.”

Well, when he puts it like that.

***

By the time we make it to the bar the dancing is in full swing. Eric and I dropped off the horses back at the farm and he made quick work of taking care of them, but even still we’re definitely late to the party. By the time we arrive Christine and Trevor are huddled together at a table, his arm protectively not leaving her waist, and the two of them are bent over talking nonstop. To my utter delight, I spot Penny and Dean making their way across the dance floor. Eric definitely notices when I let out a little squeal, but he has a little smile of his own. I start to head toward the set of tables, assuming Eric doesn’t want to dance and I should wait there until someone asks me to join them on the floor. But before I can make it two steps, there’s a hand tugging at the belt loop of my jeans, pulling me toward the herd of dancers.

“Dance with me?” Eric pulls me a little closer with the request, and even though I haven’t had a lick of alcohol I feel my head go dizzy.

“Sure.”

We dance not one, but three consecutive songs, spinning around the dance floor, weaving in and out of other less coordinated couples. Another poor guy attempted to cut in, and Eric did what he did on the Fourth of July and the other guy went scurrying along. I was polite and pretended not to notice, but the small smile that found its way to my lips was something that Eric did not miss.

The third bled into a line dancing song that apparently got everyone and their mother out of the stools and to the center of the floor. Penny and Christine grabbed me away from Eric and the three of us found spots with the boys close behind. With instructors on each side I was able to pick up each step pretty quickly, but the chorus of stomps from cowboy boots with each step gave me goosebumps.

We work up a healthy sweat and lots of laughs that leave us all parched. Penny and I attempt to head to the bar, but being that Nancy Randall raised her sons up right, Dean and Eric quickly intercept and do the job for us. They walk back to the table with a round of drinks for everyone, and I notice Eric wink at Christine while he hands her a clear liquid that to anyone else could be filled with alcohol, but she looks at me and accepts his incognito offering.

“Alight, California, time to see if you’re really as much of a champ without dipshit here stealing all of your whiskey,” Dean says as he passes over a much darker-looking glass of what I assume to be Pendleton.

“I don’t know if I want to ruin my reputation. As you know it now, you think I’m a tank.”

“No, we think Eric is a dumb ass.”

“I stand by it,” Eric pops in from next to me. He’s doing that casual leaning-toward-me-but-not-too-close thing that sends my poor heart pitter-pattering. “But I’ll let you have it tonight. And I’m driving you back, so have as much as you want.” Then looking over to me, square in the damn eyes so that he knows that I know that he means it in more ways than one, he adds a soft “I’ve got you” that has me throwing back half of the drink in one sip.

Dean whoops and hollers and we go through a play-by-play of tonight’s rodeo. The end of summer approaching also means the competitions start to mean a little more. Trevor doesn’t seem to worry about it, but with Christine sitting on his lap he provides his occasional input while constantly checking to see if she’s comfortable.

I love them. I really do.

Penny stays at our table despite two offers from other men to go dance. Turns out the Randall brothers also all have the same glare, and thankfully Penny politely declines each dance in tandem with Dean staring the poor guy down. Penny misses it, but I sure as hell don’t. Even if my book never gets published, even if this whole thing is a flop, I will always consider the two of them to be my success in this excursion if they can finally stop tiptoeing around each other and realize they both found their lobsters.

The topic of a few horses headed to the ranch to be trained picks up, and the brothers operate and communicate like a well-oiled machine. Eric is the obvious leader, but the responsibility that Dean and Trevor operate shows a reverence for the trade that’s deeper than any occupation I’ve seen. These guys know what they do impacts a whole lot of small things that add up to be big things. The idea of being a “steward” I thought was an outdated concept; turns out I just hadn’t seen it in the modern context.

Penny and Christine start to talk about the upcoming shipment Penny has planned for the store, and it sounds like there are more sparkly belts in her future.

After throwing back my third drink of the evening I understand why Dean was so surprised at his initial impression of my drinking capabilities. This stuff is strong, and I know I have no filter when I’ve got a buzz…and the comfortable buzz I have right now is starting to bell curve right into a dangerous direction. When in doubt, keep silent. That’s my theory. No one knows you’re tipsy until you reveal you’re tipsy. Best way to avoid being an idiot.

Unfortunately for me, I’m with people who now know me a little too well and notice I’m a little more silent than usual. Specifically, the lump to my left. The handsome lump.

“How you doin’ there, Red?” His smirk lets me know he’s very well aware of my current state.

“Just fine, how’s your drink?”

“Oh, I stopped an hour ago. But your cheeks are lookin’ a little rosy. Want some water?” I accept his offer without protest because I’m not twenty-five anymore and water will help the hangover that’s likely to happen based on the way I’m currently feeling. Dean supplies another drink and Eric looks between it and me a few times before I take a much slower sip. “How about another dance?”

“Do you really want to dance?”

“With you? Always. Come on, baby, let’s work off some of that alcohol.”

Eric spins me around the dance floor, and I can no longer hide that I’ve definitely fallen into the tipsy category. You’d never know it from the way Eric guides me around. Even with my dumb cast. He keeps me held in close and moving correctly to the beat. But I know I’ve crossed into that category because I let myself lay my head down on his chest. And it’s comfortable, dammit. Like, really comfortable. And I swear I feel him kiss the top of my head three separate times.

I look up when I feel the third kiss because I need to confirm that he is, in fact, publicly displaying affection we specifically agreed on not having, but he looks like an innocent little saint just moving us around the dance floor.

“Eric.”

“Red.”

“What are you doing? Penny says you never dance, but you’ve been dancing with me all night and whiskey took away my filter and now I just need to know.”

“Same thing I’ve been doing since I decided to stop being an idiot. I’m going to win you over. Think you can keep that filter down long enough to tell me how I’m doing? I think I’m getting pretty close.”

“Eric, we talked about this. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had at this point but—”

“—Damn straight—”

“—but how on earth would any of this work? Three weeks of me being back in California and you’ll know I’m right.”

“I know that you think you’re right. I’m not going to tell you you’re wrong. I’m going to show you you’re wrong.”

“And how exactly are you going to do that?”

“You’ll see,” he says with a sparkle in his eye that I’m not imagining. “Now, about your epilogue, I’ve been thinking you should try and write a little tonight. I’m curious what would happen if you write a little bit tipsy. Have you heard of the ‘write drink, edit sober’ theory?”

“Of course I have, I’ve just never tried it before.”

“Let’s get you home and give it a whirl. You’ll be the drunk here, and I’ll be the sober one.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the same person at different times…”

“Well, tonight we’re doing it my way.”

“Bossy.”

“Can be,” he says with another little wink that makes my stomach plummet.

We excuse ourselves from the rest of the group and Penny and Christine are not shy about sending looks my way. I return the look right back at Penny, who is sitting rather closely to Dean and has still not danced with anyone else. We roll our eyes simultaneously. Christine just sits there glowing.

I leave the bar feeling an internal tug-of-war waging. On one hand, I’ve never been more content. I’ve never felt more known. On the other hand, this feeling has a countdown, and for the first time since deflecting conversations about the topic for the last month I start to think about what setting up roots here would actually look like. Damn you, Pendleton.