Lisa.
One Year later . . .
I turn into the driveway at Wishing Well Ranch and take a deep breath. Fuck it feels good to be home. It's been two weeks on the road. Which is about fourteen days longer than I want to be away from Roseanne.
But I'm happy. I'm fulfilled. I've got it all. My health. A job coaching on the WBRF circuit. And the girl of my fucking dreams waiting for me a couple minutes down this gravel road.
She better be naked. Naked and ready. I can feel myself swell in my jeans at the prospect. At the thought of our video chats while I've been away.
Usually, this gig only takes me away for a few days at a time. I fly in and I fly out, but I gave a clinic between weekend events this time to a bunch of young up-and-comers. It was fun.
But I miss my girl something fierce.
The road winds past the main house and then merges with a newer portion. Our portion. At the end of this driveway is our house. And I don't think I'll ever get tired of referring to it that way.
The only thing more satisfying would be being able to call Roseanne my wife.
"Mm," I hum and slap my hand against the steering wheel of my new truck. The one Roseanne made me buy because it's "safer." And because the old one kept breaking down because I never found the time to do any work on it. But I think the new truck is worth it if only because it means that when I pull up to the newly constructed bungalow to see my girl sitting on the front steps next to . . .
My old truck.
But not my old truck. Because the one she's sitting next to is painted the prettiest blue. A steely blue.
The blue of my mom's eyes in my favorite picture of her.
The sight of it winds me. The girl I wish my mom could have met. Sitting next to a truck that now reminds me of her-that she bought for someone she loved.
In the strangest way, it seems like so much more than a pretty girl sitting next to a pretty truck.
Pulling up, I park beside it and step out on wobbly legs. Jaw hanging as I stare at the vehicle beside me. The bridge of my nose feels awfully tingly, and my vision is only slightly blurred when Roseanne walks around the front of it, small hand trailing across the hood. Simple white tank top and cut-off jeans making her look effortlessly sexy. The best thing she's wearing though is the soft look in her eyes and the tentative smile on her lips.
"Did I do okay?"
My lips press together as I try to suck in a centering breath. My gaze bounces between her and the truck.
"Okay? Roseanne this is . . . how did you pull this off? Is this even the same truck? Does it run?"
She treads closer, bare feet on the freshly paved driveway. And before I know it, she's wedged herself underneath my arm, hand slung in the back pocket of my Wranglers as we stand there hip to hip staring at my new truck.
She laughs quietly and just stares for a moment. "Yes, it's the same truck. Every time you've been away this season, I've taken it into the shop to have them work on it." A choked laugh bubbles up in my chest and she tilts her head against me, painting herself flush against my side. "I hated you being gone for two weeks, but it was the perfect opportunity for the guys to finish it up."
"Wow." She's struck me nearly speechless. This was so far down my to- do list that I didn't even see it coming. I knew I wanted it. One day. After the house was finished, and there were a couple adorable little Roseanne clones running around the yard.
"Is the color right? I spent a lot of time looking at pictures of her. Trying to find just the right shade."
I wish I could say something to that, but I'm too choked up. So, I just fold her into a hug, take a deep inhale of the scent on her skin-cherries, always cherries-and whisper into the crook of her neck, "It's perfect, Princess. And so are you."
