Howdy Honey (Rolivia)

Mustang Sally

Howdy Honey! Shall we begin?
Your city girl wants to take you for a spin
So strut on down to her old '65
(Put on your walkin' boots) We'll go for a drive
Your Cap'n's only order: "Bring your wits"
And on your big day here's some fringe benefits

She understood most of the clue, but for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why Olivia had stolen her cowboy boots. With no further instruction than "Southern casual" and the proffered envelope, she'd gotten dressed—hip-huggin' stonewash jeans with the cozy seat and embroidered pockets that attracted Olivia's hands like magnets; Western-style rockabilly shirt in black, skulls and rose vines stitched along the bodice in white and red relief; messy side-pony just for the heck of it—only to discover that her favorite shitkickers were nowhere to be found in the closet or under the bed.

Honestly, it was an aggressively Southern outfit (except for the boots), but she knew the captain liked her Georgia peach extra peachy.

Opting for a pair of suede booties in a low heel that would inevitably garner a few short jokes, Amanda trotted swiftly from their apartment and down to the parking garage via stairwell. She was much too giddy and impatient to wait on the elevator; besides, elevator rides were no fun anymore if Olivia wasn't in the car with her.

She did, however, discover Olivia in a different sort of a car altogether. The top was down on the '65 Mustang—an ambitious choice for New York in the spring, but Amanda had no complaints, especially with the captain lounging in the driver's seat like a queen on her throne. A very confident, very sexy queen who filled the space around her to the fullest, one arm draped along the window ledge, the other thrown casually across the steering wheel. A pair of Ray-Ban aviators were perched atop her thick, chestnut mane, all tousled waves and pretty tendrils.

She'd worn the leather biker jacket, sleek as black oil and embellished in glinting silver, which had once inspired Amanda to tongue her top teeth coyly and, in her breathiest Sandy Olsson voice, remark, "Tell me about it, stud."

Underneath the jacket, Olivia was snug as a bug in a gray angel hair sweater, partnered with the no-nonsense, straight-legged jeans she preferred (although she had cuffed the hems, exposing a knot of lovely golden ankle) and her Adidas trainers. It was an effortless and cool look that already had Amanda salivating, even before she hurdled the passenger side door and plunked down beside her hot date.

Who said forty-one years meant you had to stop showing off your agility and precision?

"Where we goin', foxy lady?" she asked brightly, flashing a grin both toothy and dimpled. Her secret weapon, but also an indicator of her barely contained excitement. If this birthday was anywhere near as good as the last—and the handwritten clue on embossed stationery seemed like a positive sign—she was in for a real treat.

Olivia eyed her with open amusement, caught off guard only for a moment by the lack of preamble. She swept an approving gaze over Amanda's ensemble and hitched up one corner of her mouth in a wry smile. "That's for me to know and you to find out, pardner."

"You said dress Southern. Figured it was 'bout time I dusted this baby off." Amanda smoothed the sleeves of her stiff cotton shirt, then plucked rakishly at the tips of the collar. James Dean meets honkytonk. She'd owned the shirt since freshman year of college and was rather pleased to find it still fit like a glove.

"Well, once again you have exceeded all my wildest, rootin'-tootin' expectations," Olivia said, fingertips poised beneath Amanda's chin like she was admiring a delicate jewel suspended on a fine gold chain.

Amanda craned her neck and kissed the heel of Olivia's outstretched palm, right at the cleft. To her delight, the hand twitched, goosebumps springing up on the swath of wrist exposed beneath the leather cuff. Secret: her tough-as-nails captain was more sensitive to touch than a sea-anemone, its tendrils wavering in a dreamy underwater dance.