Falling for You

“To work.”

Work?

That tells me nothing. I rack my brain trying to pick apart our conversation last night. Hattie drove Layla, which means she can’t live more than a few hours from here. I doubt she’s hopping on a plane tonight and going to work tomorrow, which means she probably lives in Florida. Possibly somewhere nearby.

I roll the windows down and twist my fingers in the breeze. I know better than to get excited. Every time I let myself look forward to something, like the prospect of seeing Layla again, life shits all over my plans. “What do you do?”

“I’ve been working for my aunt’s fundraising company. You’d be surprised how long it takes to set up an event from start to finish.” She rolls her window up and runs her fingers through her hair. I tuck my elbow in and roll mine up too, so not to come across as a dick.

“Oh?” I don’t know shit about fundraisers. My knowledge goes about as far as showing up and handing them my money.

“Yeah, the one we’ve got on Thursday has been a beast. It’s taken four months to get everything in order.” She turns her head to look out the window, a frown tugging at her lips. “Where are we?”

We’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by large stretches of open land and pines. My tires cross off the pavement and onto a poorly graded road. Coins in my cup holders rattle. The glasses hanging from my rearview window swing like a pendulum. My tire sinks into a hole with a thud and we bounce in our seats. If not for the belts strapping us in, we’d be slung around like a forgotten bullet in a pair of pants in the dryer.

After about fifteen minutes of bouncing, we reach the gate to Sam’s dad’s place. He has a nice chunk of land, ten acres, but ours is bigger. In fact, our ranch is only thirty more minutes down this road.

So, why am I not taking Layla there? For one, I don’t bring girls home. Unless they’re coming to our annual Fourth of July party, and have been invited by someone other than me, the only people to ever walk on my land are my bros.

I’m not embarrassed about where I live. We have two houses on the property: Paw’s, which is close to the barn, and then Mom’s house with the pool that I grew up in. Our land has been in the family for three generations and our family has been here for so long my great-grandfather’s name is on one of the street signs in downtown Sebastian.

But I’ve seen the way Bret’s girlfriends’ eyes light up when he brought them around. Some saw the beauty of our home, while others saw a fortune and they wanted in. We aren’t rich by any means, but we aren’t poor either. Maintaining the ranch costs a lot of money, more than most people realize, and it's a lot of work, even more so since Paw passed, but it was his pride and joy. I’ll be damned if it goes to some yuppie because Mom can’t handle it herself and Bret is off chasing tail.

Sam’s place, on the other hand, could only be considered a ranch on Halloween, when things pretend to be what they’re not. They have a dilapidated double-wide and a handful of scrawny cows that aren’t worth the cost to feed them. I keep my mouth shut, because those cows aren’t my problem and Sam has nothing to do with his dad. The only thing this place has going for it, besides the acreage, is that they have a killer barn.

Crossing over Sam’s cattle grate, I veer to the left of the property and park beside that pole barn I was talking about. I turn the truck off, but leave the keys in the ignition. “You ready for this?”

Layla looks around, her eyes slowly taking in the scenery. “What are we doing?”

I bite back a grin, knowing what she sees: a herd of cows, too many acres of grass to mow without a tractor, and a sun-faded trailer. I hope she doesn't think we’re white trash. This may not be my piece of land, but it’s my way of life.

I put my arm around Layla’s waist and link her fingers with mine. It’s the first move I’ve made, and she doesn?

?t seem to mind, which gives me hope. “So, around here,” I say, as we near the shed on the backside of Sam’s trailer, “when there’s nothing to do, we blow shit up.”

Layla’s mouth falls open. I put my finger under her chin and push it closed. Her eyes meet mine for a second and those plump red lips, lift in the corner. I wait, looking for some sign that it’s okay to make my next move. I don’t normally think this much. I take what I want, a pretty smile usually my invitation, but Layla makes me nervous. There’s something about her that makes me want to try. It makes me scared to fuck this up.

“Are y'all gonna stare at each other all day? Or are we gonna shoot?”

I draw my gaze away from Layla and find Sam about a foot away, holding my .308 rifle out. I take a step back from Layla and grab my gun. Sam shakes his head, a cocky smirk on his face, then leans against the side of the shed, his twelve-gauge shotgun beside him.

“We’re out of things to blow up…safely.” I walk to the firing line. Layla follows, stopping beside me as I reach the black spray painted line that marks a hundred yards from the targets. “So, the next best thing is to shoot something.”

I raise my rifle to my shoulder and take aim. I’m ready to shoot, but hold off to look over at Layla. She bites her lip, those eyes giving me a once over she probably thinks I can’t see. “Might want to cover your ears. It’s pretty loud.”

Layla’s delicate hands reach over her ears and I aim again.

BANG.

My shoulder hitches from the kick, but after years of hunting, I’m used to it. I re-chamber and shoot a few more times, hitting each target until the gun clicks, signaling that I’m out of rounds. Taking a few steps back, I turn and hand Sam the gun.

Layla looks like a scared puppy that just found the biggest steak of its life. Excited, but intimidated. I wave her over and she runs to my side. When we reach the table Sam set our targets on, her gaze skirts across the exploded water bottles. “Dang, not too shabby.”

I know I’m a good shot, but it’s nice to hear her praise. I swell with pride and stand tall. “Thanks.”

We replace the busted bottles with fresh ones, then walk back to the safety of the shed. Once we’re out of the way, Sam raises the shotgun and shoots his targets. Layla watches him, fascination dancing across her face, even though she flinches with each shot.

I wrap my hand around her waist and pull her close. She rests her cheek against my shoulder, fingers playing at the hem of my shirt. We stay like this, watching Sam cross the field and walk to the tables.