Chapter 11: The Morning After
The first hint of dawn was just a grey smear beyond the curtains when Brandon’s eyes opened. He was instantly, completely awake, the ingrained circadian rhythm of a rancher overriding the fatigue in his muscles. Alysha was a warm, deep-breathing weight against his side, one arm thrown across his chest, her face buried against his shoulder. He lay perfectly still, savoring the unfamiliar luxury of it, the way her braids felt against his skin.
Carefully, millimeter by millimeter, he extracted himself. She made a soft, protesting sound in her sleep but curled into the warmth he left behind, clutching the pillow. He stood naked by the bed for a long moment, just watching her sleep. In the weak light, she looked younger, the professional nurse’s composure utterly dissolved. He saw the faint, purpling mark his mouth had left on the curve of her shoulder and felt a primal flash of possession.
He pulled on his boxers and jeans, moving silently on the rough hotel carpet. The small table held his duffel. From it, he pulled the single-serve coffee machine Consuelo had packed for him—a beaten-up old travel model she’d insisted would make better coffee than anything the motel offered—and a sealed bag of her custom dark roast blend. He filled the reservoir from the bathroom tap, got the machine gurgling. The rich, earthy smell of real coffee began to permeate the room, cutting through the stale scent of sex and sleep.
Alysha stirred. A deep inhale, then a sigh. He watched her eyelids flutter open. She blinked at the ceiling, disoriented, then turned her head toward the small machine hissing on the table.
“That smells… illegal,” she mumbled, her voice gravelly with sleep. She pushed herself up on her elbows, the sheet pooling around her waist. “What time is it?”
He glanced at his phone on the nightstand. “Five-forty.”
She stared at him. “You’re crazy. That’s not a time. That’s a punishment.” She fell back against the pillows with a groan.
He smiled, pouring the dark brew into one of the motel’s plastic cups. “Early to rise, early in the sack,” he said, quoting the old John Denver lyric with a shrug.
She peeked at him again, a slow, genuine smile spreading. “Early in the sack is right,” she laughed, the sound still sleep-rough. “Shit, thanks to you I might not be able to leave the sack. I feel like I got run over by a friendly tractor.” She stretched, wincing slightly, then fixed him with a curious, amused look. “Seriously, what got into you last night? I thought bull riders had to conserve energy.”
He brought her the coffee. “I was just trying to make you feel good.”
She took the cup, her fingers brushing his. She took a tentative sip, her eyes closing in pleasure. “Missions accomplished,” she breathed. Then she opened her eyes, the humor fading into something more pragmatic. “I work a twelve today. Starts at seven.”
“It’s fine,” he said, leaning against the wall. “I gotta check on Thor, make sure the stable kid didn’t overfeed him. I can run the three-gun course a few times, burn off some… energy.” He gave her a look that made her cheeks flush. “I’ve got my laptop. I can do ranch paperwork right here. Keep myself busy.”
She sipped her coffee, watching him over the rim. He could see the gears turning, the night’s passion colliding with the morning’s reality. She shook her head slightly, as if physically trying to clear the cobwebs. When she spoke again, the playful tone was gone, replaced by a vulnerable earnestness.
“Brandon… what are we doing?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He stayed where he was, letting the question hang in the coffee-scented air.
“I feel completely out of control with you,” she continued, her voice low. “Like I can’t stop myself. I see you and every sensible thought in my head just… evaporates. And it scares me. I’m supposed to be the one with the plan. I’m not a kid.”
He pushed off the wall then. He came and sat on the edge of the bed, facing her. He took the coffee cup from her hands and set it on the nightstand. Then he took her hands in his, his callused thumbs smoothing over her knuckles. He looked her directly in the eye, his bright blues steady and serious.
“I don’t know either, Alysha.”
The admission seemed to cost him something. He let out a slow breath.
“The last thing I expected was to run into you ever again. But ever since I did…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t know if I can let you go again. I didn’t have a choice before. I was a kid. You were an adult living your life. I got on a plane with my granddad and that was that.”
He squeezed her hands, his grip firm, anchoring.
“I do now. Have a choice. And all I know is I’m not letting go first.” His voice dropped, a quiet vow in the dim room. “Not ever.”
Tears welled in her honey-brown eyes, but she didn’t look away. She didn’t let them fall. Instead, a smile broke through, slow and beautiful, vulnerable and naked in its truth. She was naked in every way that mattered, sitting there in his motel bed, and she didn’t try to cover any of it up.
She didn’t answer with words. She leaned forward, her hands coming up to cradle his face, and pulled him into a kiss.
It was different from all the others. Softer. Deeper in its simplicity. A seal of acceptance, a surrender to the terrifying, wonderful unknown. He reciprocated lovingly, his hands sliding into her braids, his mouth moving against hers with a tenderness that threatened to undo her completely.
He shifted, easing her back down onto the pillows, following her without breaking the kiss. The coffee cooled, forgotten. The grey dawn light strengthened, doing nothing to dispel the private world they were building in that shabby room. They lay on the bed, tangled together, kissing with a slow, exploring hunger that promised this was just another beginning, that the conversation was far from over, but for now, the only language they needed was this.