So I decide to stop there first before I hit the store, borrowing Gram’s car.
As soon as I pull into Faye’s driveway, Weston steps out of the house and hurries to my window.
“Something wrong?” he asks.
“No. I was just going shopping for all the things they’ll need for their tables. I thought I’d stop by to see if you need anything.”
He places both hands on the car door. They’re almost like paws, a reminder of how weighty he is, how easily he can pick me up and toss me around.
“I’m good. Thanks. You really came out here just for that?” He raises a knowing eyebrow.
My blood heats a few more degrees.
He’s wearing a navy-blue t-shirt that molds his torso sinfully today, and I can’t help but admire his physique.
Clearing my throat, I spit out my question. “I was wondering...there’ll be a dance at the car show, right?”
He frowns slightly.
“Yeah. Why?”
I shrug. “Just wondering what I should wear.”
“You plan on tearing up the floor?” He snorts, a jagged sound that matches the fiery glint in his eye.
Then he rakes me with this look that’s jealous. Animal. Possessive.
I try so hard not to shudder.
Naturally, I fail.
“Um, yeah. I didn’t realize it was going to be a classic shindig, complete with costumes and dance moves and bobbing for apples. I’d better make the most of it. You don’t find much country dancing back east,” I say.
“Shindig?” He snorts again. His grin shows off the dimple in his cheek. “Careful, woman. Your country roots are hanging out like a wardrobe malfunction.”
Laughing, I clutch the wheel.
“Oh, please. I never minded my roots. One thing I won’t let D.C. turn me into is a snob, West.”
“They’d have to waterboard you, I’ll admit. You’re a tough-ass gal,” he says with a nod, patting the roof of the car. “Well, I gotta get back inside and help Faulk finish testing the new system. Have fun picking over fruit for the next hour for your perfectionist granny.”
“I will.” I roll my eyes playfully, watching him walk inside the house before backing up.
I wasn’t just messing around. I truly don’t mind my rustic roots.
It actually hits me that there isn’t much about D.C. living I’ve missed since returning to Dallas, aside from a few bomb barbecue places.
Then again, haven’t I been hyperfocused on Weston this whole time?
And on Gram’s mental and physical therapy, of course.
This is honestly only like the second time I’ve gone shopping alone for an extended time.
It feels good to be surrounded by so many familiar things as I drive onto Dallas’ main drag.
For a second, I just park my car and breathe.
Time moves slower here, a pace that’s easy to fall in love with.