We were way out in the country. I knew that from things he'd casually told me. But I also knew it was hobby farm, gentrified country, five acre lots pigeon holed for the upper middle class and above, who wanted to raise their babies away from the mean city streets. I knew most of the trees on the hundred or so acres had been cut down so the new owners could play landed country folk and landscape their lots to suit their desire so...and there we were! It was the only other house, and obviously unfinished, that I saw when I took a slightly giddy inspiring 360 degree whirling look about. And only about a two acre walk away from me...nothing for a country chick tomboy like me.
One acre into that walk I had to admit, the sandals probably hadn't been the best choice in footwear. I was developing several definite blisters. Yes I was an athletic tomboy, in great shape, but a two acre walk in the wrong shoes, blisters are just gonna happen! And I didn't even have the option to take the damn sandals off! Gavin had just started this project. Eventually he'd have a huge crew under him, putting up a dozen houses at once, but first he had to finish the second house. So the two acres I had to walk to get to that second house he was working on were just roughly plowed under, and had erupted in a growth of nettles and prickly vegetation.
I took that last acre walk slow, and kept the threatened blisters down to almost shows.
The house looked really nice, even as rough as it was. It was basically just the shell still; no shingles, no siding, but I could see it eventually easily being worth the three to four hundred thousand each house was slated to net. This was luxury housing, and it came with enough property to make each and every new owner feel that olden days King of your castle smugness. Owning land will probably never lose its value.
There was a battered old picnic table plunked down just in front of where the driveway for the house would eventually be poured, and I hopped up on top of it; wriggling back far enough to bring my legs up and pull my sandals off so I could sit Indian style and regroup for a minute or two. I was hot and sweaty and my damn feet hurt! Maybe I should have just waited for Gavin to get back to the finished display house because fuck knows my arousal had kinda wilted during the walk and at the moment I was flat out just hot, sore, and cranky as an Irish Banshee!
I'd been smart enough to bring a bottle of water with me for the walk-and Gavin knew me so well that half a dozen had been nestled, three quarters full, in the freezer half of his fridge. I love water. It's what I mostly drink. I'll buy a twelve pack of diet coke, and it lasts me sometimes a month. But cold, cold water is my favorite drink. It's cheap, when it comes from the tap, and good for the body.
So I sat there, on the picnic table, which happily was being shaded by the garage, and drank down half that icy, refreshing bottle of water. And I thought about Gavin. At first just thinking how nice...and typical of him it was, that he'd remember that my favorite drink is chilled water.
But my thoughts didn't stay innocent for long.
I love the fact that he knows me, understands me. There's really only two things that I totally can't stomach. The first is being bored. And the second is stupid people. I'm honestly not an intelligentsia snob-I have almost no street smarts, and I struggle with math and science and technology. But anything that involves reading or words-that's MY world. I taught myself to both read and write when I was five. Don't ask me how, I was FIVE, I don't remember. I wanted to read my mom's Nancy Drew books, and she was too busy to read to me, so I learned what I needed on my own.
I've spent my life being told to "speak English" by people who don't read or write much, if at all, and see no value, get no rush from reading a 500 year old antique book and finding a wonderful new word. That got old when I was about ten.
He speaks my language, and to me, nothing is more erotic then the cerebral.
To be with someone I can't hide from, that I can't manipulate-even if it's in an "innocent" and non malicious way-is very rare for me. I can't paint a pretty picture and put my best foot forward with him. And in a way that's terrifying to me. He sees ME, the real me, not the pretty china doll hiding behind whatever version of the mask I put on that I think people want to see, to give them what they want, to make them like me.
So yep, that's terrifying as bloody hell to me.
But there's that other thing. He knows I'm not perfect; he knows I have a temper that can erupt in ugly ways-rarely, but yeah, it can. He knows I hold grudges and that I get my feelings hurt easily. And he always knows when he's hurt my feelings-unlike most people I know-and he won't let me get away with my tendency to go quiet and pull away, shoving my emotion down and withdrawing.
He knows that I whine when I'm sick and that I can be a real bitch over silly little stupid shit. And he still likes me. Even when I'm not playing pretty, perfect little good girl.
"Hey sexy, what you doing sitting out here?"
AWK!!!
