“Ain’t that the smart way to make expensive decisions?”
He huffed a laugh and took her backpack and equipment from her hands to carry for her, ignoring her perturbed glare that he was treating her like an incapable woman again. Whatever. Deborah Dixon had instilled manners in her boys. The pack was surprisingly heavy as she tied her shirt around her waist. Placing his hand to the small of her back, he guided her toward Blue Rocket, and noticed the racerback of her tank cutting between her shoulder blades as she swung the tripod in its case onto her shoulder, revealing that beautiful, whimsical, monarch butterfly inked into her skin like a painting from a storybook.
What was with her and butterflies?
His brow furrowed as he envisioned the butterfly landing on her forehead a moment ago and how excited she’d seemed by it, the sticker on her totaled truck still sitting smashed by the roadside, and come to think of it, he’d seen her run her finger over his great-grandmother’s lamp. It was sweet. Kind of girlie.
Isabella, the only other woman he’d lived with—you’re not living with Heather—would never have been caught dead in the mish-mash of things Heather seemed to gravitate toward—ladybug studs in her ears today. She never would have been caught dead in jeans or boots unless Armani was paying her a boatload to wear them in Italian leather for a shoot.
Heather flashed him a smile, her eyes glittering in the sunlight. “I know what I like.”
Yes, she did. And she seemed to like him for the time being. She slipped her backpack out of his hand, pulling it onto her unoccupied shoulder and took her total station, then began walking down the road.
His brow crinkled. “Where’re you going? Truck’s right here.”
She bit her lip, eyes bouncing askance. “I didn’t assume you’re going to drive me. For all I know you’re on your way out to your outer pastures. I walked out here this morning. It’s not that far.”
He leveled a glare at her. “It’s one-point-six-two miles from the front door—”
“You would know the exact distance,” she said like she withheld a laugh.
“And you walked out here with all that equipment?” What the hell? “I thought one of my guys gave you a lift.”
She shook her head, eyes crinkling with confusion. “Of course I walked. I hike just for fun a lot of the time. You wouldn’t believe the inconvenient places I’ve had to haul my gear. It’s just,” she shrugged, “what I do. Look out for myself.”
Concern niggled at that remark. She came across as tough. But there was an ounce of something vulnerable in that last comment that he couldn’t put his finger on. “You don’t got family to ever help you out?”
“Coming from the guy who has family but doesn’t let them help out,” she teased.
Touché.A smile quirked the corner of his mouth. She took a deep breath. Fell silent. Her eyes darted over his shoulder, and he glanced back to see what had caught her attention. The butterflies… “Aside from me and my grandparents, my family’s not that close. Not anymore,” she offered like it was an answer. Yet it littered quite a few questions floating unanswered onto the wind. “And I have a lot to do with that.”
He pulled open the passenger door, the engine still idling. He cleared his throat and grinned, wanting to get back to teasing, because for the first time since meeting her, a deep furrow had darkened her brow. Her remark sounded a lot like someone who needed the attachments she shunned, and she’d just scolded him about that, no matter how playfully.
“Woman, get in the truck. Or do you think I’m about to drop down on one knee and beg you for an attachment because I’m offering you a ride?”
She faltered. He watched her eye him. Held firm, crossed his arms, and met the challenge by standing silent and forcing the ball into her court again.
Then she smiled and strode past him, slipping onto the seat and dropping her pack between her knees on the floorboard as he scooped up her equipment and dropped it into the truck bed. “You better not.”
Was that another little challenge? Challenge accepted.