“No, don’t feel bad. Are you kidding me?” I took her hand and kissed the back of it, held it in my lap. “That was awesome.”
A few miles down the road, I saw what I was looking for—a sign for a gas station that catered to truckers and road trippers. “I’m gonna get gas.”
I exited the highway and pulled into the station. Before getting out of the car, I ditched the blue shirt and tossed it into the back seat, glad I was wearing an undershirt with no holes or pit stains. I had plenty of those, but since I’d been seeing Jillian I’d actually invested in some new ones. She wore such beautiful underwear, I figured the least I could do was wear t-shirts without yellow underarms. Look at that, less of a caveman already. Mom would call her a good influence.
I liked that.
After pumping gas, I poked my head into the car, willing myself to keep a straight face. “I’m gonna run into the store and see if they have a shirt. Want anything?”
“No.” She cocked her head, pressing her lips together. “You’re going to look for a shirt at the gas station? Don’t you want to look for a nicer store?” She looked over her shoulders, like maybe there was a Nordstrom hiding behind the Quick Save BP.
“No. It’s fine. I’m sure there’s something in there.”
Five minutes later, I came out wearing a light blue t-shirt that said MOTHER TRUCKER on it. Jillian stared as I got in the car. “That’s the shirt you bought for tonight?”
“Yeah. Like it? It’s badass, right? I was tempted by the one that said ‘My Girl Is Dirtier Than My Truck’ but I thought that might not be nice enough for where we’re going.”
“Um, it’s fun.” She chewed her lip all the way back to the highway. “Is…is the place where we’re going really nice? I feel bad about your dress shirt.”
“I guess you’ll find out.” I couldn’t even meet her worried eyes. I could tell she thought maybe I really was a caveman and I was going to wear a shirt that said MOTHER TRUCKER into a fancy restaurant, but I loved the look on her face too much to tell her the truth.
I loved everything about her.
? ? ?
She saw the sign before we actually arrived. I knew right when she figured it out because she gasped, clapped her hands, and stomped her feet. “Journeyman!”
I grinned. “You guessed it.”
“I love it! I’m excited!” She slapped my shoulder. “You should have told me!”
“I like surprises. And I don’t get to give them much.”
We pulled into the parking lot a few minutes after six, and Jillian was bouncing up and down in the front seat like—well, like a birthday girl. I think she was glad when I threw my jacket on over my new t-shirt, although she was too nice to say so.
We went into the distillery and took the tour, admiring the former factory’s nineteenth century maple floors, the brass, stainless steel and oak equipment, and the passion and precision with which the makers created their product. Later we sat at the concrete bar tasting whiskey and marveling that the original owner of the factory, who’d made his fortune manufacturing featherbone corsets, had been a prohibitionist. We raised our glasses.
“To EK Warren, misguided fool,” I said. “Although I think you’d look good in a corset.”
She laughed and we tipped back the shots. “Ah, that’s good,” she said. “I like that sign over there—I’d rather be someone’s shot of whiskey than everyone’s cup of tea.”
I looked where she was pointing. “I like that too.” Dropping a kiss on her shoulder, I added, “You’re my shot of whiskey, cup of tea, slice of pie and scoop of ice cream.”
She gave me a coy smile. “I thought you didn’t eat ice cream.”
I whispered in her ear. “I do when it’s yours.”
The expression on her face was better than a million dollars. Making her happy felt so fucking good.
? ? ?
We shared the crisp pork belly appetizer, a plate of roasted vegetables, and the whiskey barbecue chicken, and we drank a little more whiskey than we probably should have. Every time she looked at my shirt, she burst out laughing, and I threatened to wear it the first time I met her parents—or better yet, buy the one about the dirty girl.
“I am dirty,” she whispered as we wandered through the parking lot, hand in hand. “I can’t believe I did that in the car. I’ve never done that before.”
“Good.” I walked her to the passenger side of my car and backed her into it. “A car virgin. I like it.” I kissed her, finally. It felt like I’d been waiting all day.
“A car virgin,” she said, her hands running up my chest inside my jacket. “But not a closet virgin.”
“Nope.” I kissed my way down her neck. “I took care of that when I had the chance.”
“Did you ever do it in a closet with anyone else?”
I picked my head up and tried to think.
“You don’t know?”
“I was not a well-behaved or responsible person for many years, Jillian. If you want the real answer, I have to think.”