Big Man

I glance from the truck to him and back again. The step is two feet off the ground—nothing I couldn’t handle with effort, but still. I place my hand in his, and thrill at the warmth of his skin, the strength in his hands. I lean on him as I step up, and he lifts me easily toward the cabin as I climb into the passenger side seat.

He shuts the door behind me and circles around to his side of the truck while I’m still catching my breath from that touch. Dammit. Why does he have such an effect?

He climbs into the driver’s seat and shuts the door, not bothering with a seatbelt as the turns the ignition. Country music blares over his loud speakers, but louder than that is the growl in the truck’s engine, itching to be gassed.

Just the sound of the truck motor—a real engine—brings back a flood of memories. Riding shotgun with Mama into town for groceries, bouncing on the seat with every bump to make the ride feel like a roller coaster at the county fair.

Learning how to drive myself on these roads, gunning it as fast as I could so I could feel like I was flying—flying away from all this.

Riding shotgun with Dad, back before—No. I cut that memory off short. I don’t think about those days.

I run a hand across the dashboard, unable to conceal my smile.

“Been a while since you’ve been taken for a real ride, has it?” Grant asks, a wide smirk on his face. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the truck, exactly. My face flushes.

“Might be,” I admit.

“Well. Might want to buckle up then,” he replies, grinning.

Without further warning, he guns it. We’re facing down the driveway, but even though I just drove up and down this twice yesterday, it feels completely different from here. From the seat in a truck built for this terrain, driven by someone who knows how to handle these country roads. Pretty soon we pick up enough speed to barrel along, and I whoop, unable to contain my elation.

Grant laughs. “You need to loosen up once in a while, City Girl,” he calls over the roar of the road under our tires, the rush of wind through the cracked windows, because of course this thing doesn’t even have air con. And for some reason I don’t even mind. “You’re a lot more fun this way.”

“Yeah, well you’re a lot more fun when you’re taking me for a ride instead of calling me names,” I shout back with a smirk.

He lifts an eyebrow at that. “Can’t I do both?”

“Guess that depends on what kind of names you plan to call me,” I shout back, just as we reach the end of the driveway and he slows down, enough that my voice echoes in the cabin.

Grant barks out a laugh. “Oh, I can think of a fair few that’d suit you, City Girl.” He glances over at me, and his eyes do that thing again, that slow wander across my body that sets every nerve ending on fire.

“I’m working on a list of my own for you, Country Boy.”

“Still think you can handle this, do you.” He doesn’t say it like a question. He says it like a challenge, a dare. At the same time, he turns onto the main road toward town, not meeting my eye anymore.

“I like a challenge,” I reply, chin lifted.

“Hm. Careful what you wish for,” he answers to that, casting one last sideways glance at me before he turns his attention to the road.

For a few moments we fall silent, listening to the upbeat country tune that’s currently pounding in his speakers. It’s one I recognize, one I forgot I even knew the words to, and I find myself mouthing them under my breath as we roll through town.

Just like yesterday when I first drove in—and in the afternoon when I rode down to talk to Mark at the hotel—all eyes are on us once more. But this time, as we drive through the town square, the center of town, the social hangout for everyone and their parents—and their grandparents too, for that matter—I sense a difference. This time, I notice far more girls turning to eyeball the truck, following its path, their eyes eagerly searching out the driver’s seat.

And I notice more than a few of those smiles shifting into frowns when their eyes wander past the driver’s seat toward the passenger side and finding it occupied.

Well. Can’t blame them. I’d be thirsty for a guy like Grant too, if all I had to choose from were the pickings in this small town.

You’re hungry for him even when you do have more options, the unhelpful voice in the back of my head points out.

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from fantasizing again. But that’s hard when the whole cab of this truck smells like him. When his warm body is just a couple feet away from mine, his arm muscles bulging as he shifts the truck down a gear and turns away from the plaza.