“So tell me what we’re doing.”
“Well, I have a few things in mind. I thought I’d pick you up and maybe make you dinner, and then I was going to see if you could show me around town a little. I can get from work to the store, but I’d like to see the back roads. You know, get the scenic Wynne tour.”
I loved the sound of that.
Often I’d drive around for hours by myself. I could get lost for hours on end on those old roads, but they always led me home. I had to admit, it sounded so much better having someone with me.
“That sounds great, but you don’t have to pick me up. We can take my truck.”
Then I felt a tap on my shoulder and it startled me. I spun around to see Vaughn, in a black V-neck T-shirt and jeans, standing right there.
In my shed.
At my workbench.
I swallowed the holler that almost flew out of my mouth and pulled the earbuds out of my head.
“You scared the shit out of me.” I quickly tucked my hair behind my ear and cringed thinking about what I looked like. Was he ever going to catch me on a good day? Did I have good days?
“Sorry about that. Well, kind of. You looked happy it was me on the phone.” His wicked grin earned him forgiveness, but I didn’t want him to know I’d been swayed so easily in his favor.
“I was. But you should be sorry—if I had screamed bloody murder, my dad probably would have shot you and asked questions later.”
His eyes grew wide when the realization hit him.
“I didn’t think about that.” He turned around and looked toward the house, then back, satisfied we were alone.
“I’m surprised he didn’t come out when you pulled in anyway. He must have fallen asleep in the chair.”
“So back to tomorrow. I’d like to pick you up. Dean called and said my SUV will finally be ready tomorrow. I’ll take you home whenever you want, but I want to drive.”
I didn’t see what the big deal was. I knew the roads, and, if given the choice, I’d rather be the driver. He might be a maniac, but, then again, his eyes were so trusting. Big, blue, and honest.
“I don’t know,” I answered hesitantly. “I know the roads; you don’t.”
“I’ll have to learn sometime—besides, who better to be my first road trip co-pilot?”
He had a point. His co-pilot had a ring to it. Plus, I knew the roads like the back of my hand.
“Does your fancy ride have an input jack for music? I love the radio and Sunny does a great job, but I can’t listen to that station all night.”
“It does. And I have lots of CDs.”
This date was sounding better and better all the time.
“What are you going to cook?” I asked.
“That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. Any allergies I need to know about? Any dislikes?”
Had I ever had dinner with a guy? Then again, had I ever been out on an actual date?
This was a little disconcerting. I was almost twenty-seven, and up until that moment, I hadn’t realized I’d been missing anything. Aside from a few adolescent group dates, I’d never actually been out with a guy.
All of a sudden, I felt inadequate. I didn’t know how to act.
Was I supposed to tell him I hated pizza?
Would he try to make pizza?
Should I tell him I hated broccoli?
Was it too soon for that?
Shit. What was I thinking? Too soon for broccoli?
There were too many things I was trying to work through at the same time. Best-case scenario, he was strangely attracted to me and we’d mess around. I was undeniably attracted to him. He was gorgeous and fun, sincere and flirty.
What the hell did he see in me?
I was the daughter of a grease monkey who liked to fish. My hair was always a mess. I barely wore makeup, mostly because I wasn’t sure how to use half of the shit. I wore boots, not heels. Jeans, not skirts. I drove a beat-up old Dodge truck.
I wouldn’t even fuck me.
Messing around wasn’t the best-case scenario; it would have been a miracle.
I bet he’s a damn good kisser.
“I don’t like pizza,” I blurted.
He’d been looking around, but when I spoke, his attention returned to me. “What? Who doesn’t like pizza?”
“Me. And I don’t like broccoli either.”
“So, no broccoli pizza? Got it.” Then he winked. A full-on, movie star wink. I think I heard a little bell ding off in the distance somewhere. You know, the sound a wink makes in a Disney movie.
He was the beauty; I was the beast.
“Well, I’m a guy and I can make about seven different things. So it’s burgers, spaghetti, tacos, stir-fry, sloppy joes … I can grill just about anything, or I can make breakfast.”
My heart was still thumping to the beat of the William Tell Overture after being startled, but the mention of breakfast made the beating twice as fast. And a little more south.