“I talked to Chad and told him I was hanging with you tonight,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind me being presumptuous. I grabbed my bag in case I stay again. This way, my stuff isn’t in Cassie’s way.”
We move toward my car, his large body radiating heat like a furnace and the scent of rich soap wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. “I talked to Cassie too. We’re going to all go bowling tomorrow afternoon before I have to work, if that’s okay with you,” I state, reaching my vehicle.
“That sounds great,” he replies, tossing his bag in the back seat. “Do you mind if I drive?”
I roll my eyes but shake my head. “I suppose it’s probably been a while since you’ve driven.”
He holds open the passenger door and closes it once I’m inside. As soon as he slips into the driver seat, he replies, “It has been. Chad drove here in our rental, and since we arrived, he refuses to let me drive his baby.”
I chuckle a laugh. “You mean Big Bertha?” I ask, referring to Chad’s 2010 Ford F-350. That thing is a beast, but he loves it.
Ford chuckles as he starts up the car, pointing to the big truck parked over by the barn. “Last night, he asked his mom to let me drive her car instead of letting me drive his because, and I quote, ‘no one drives my baby girl.’”
“It’s sad, really, his love for his truck, but to be honest, everyone around here’s the same way. Country boys and their big trucks.”
He turns my car around and heads up the driveway to the road. He’s familiar enough with the farm to know how to get to town and to the bar, so I just sit back and let him drive. “I’ve got a truck back home, parked in my family’s shed. I can’t wait to take her for a spin. My dad says he starts it every weekend and drives it for me, but I’ve been chomping at the bit to get behind the wheel.”
“Let me guess, she has a name too?” I ask, leaning against the door and watching him drive.
“Oh, she does,” he confirms, shooting me a panty-melting grin before his eyes return to the road.
“Is it Sally? Susie? Stella?”
He throws me a quick wounded look. “You think I’d name my girl something cheesy like that?”
“Well, then, enlighten me.”
He smiles as he drives. “Her name happens to be Margaret, not Maggie. She’s a classy lady. A 1979 Chevy 2500 with a four-inch lift kit. She’s a square body, which I’ve loved ever since my dad had one when I was little, black with a silver rally strip down the hood. She’s crazy fast and sexy, in a sophisticated way. Not trashy and flashy like Big Bertha.”
I feel wetness gather in my lashes I’m laughing so hard. “Oh my God, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He shakes his head. “You wound me, beautiful Shayne. I’ll send you a picture of my girl when I get home, okay? Then you can see how stylish she is. You’ll feel bad for laughing at her the way you have been,” he replies, the teasing tone so effortless, I can’t help but smile.
“I can’t wait,” I reply, realizing how true that statement is. I can’t wait for him to send me that picture of his truck, even if that means he’ll be gone, and I probably won’t ever see him again.
We’re silent as we pull into town. Ford drives into the back lot behind Jet’s and parks in the space beside the back door. He’s out and grabbing his bag before I even have my belt off. Smiling, I slip from my seat just as he comes around and hands me the keys. I open the back door, making sure it’s locked behind me, and lead us up the stairs.
As soon as we’re inside and the kitchen light is on, I say, “Make yourself at home. I’ll be quick,” and toss my keys on the counter and glance around uncertainly. Ford has been here before. Hell, he spent the night here, but suddenly, now that we’re back in my space, I’m a bit nervous again.
Ford kicks off his shoes and sets them by the entry before grabbing his bag and moving to the living room. “Take your time,” he says, getting comfy on the couch.
I nod, retreat to my bedroom to grab a change of clothes, and then step across the hall to the bathroom. I strip out of my shirt and turn the water on, eager to wash the scent of fish and mud off my skin. I can feel the low pulse of music coming from downstairs, but I’m so used to it, I barely notice anymore.
I try to hustle through a shower but end up spending extra time scrubbing under my fingernails and washing my hair twice to get the smell of worms off me. When I’m finally squeaky clean, I wrap a towel around me and step out. As I approach the sink, I can’t help but press an ear against the door, trying to catch any noise coming from the living room. I hear nothing but the faint sound of Alabama from the jukebox below us.