The rumble of the diesel-fueled flatbed sounds from the open window.
My dad pushes past me and I follow him out and into the sun. My eyes adjust in time to see the driver’s door swing open and two long, denim-covered legs extend from the truck cab followed by a faded red T-shirt and a baseball hat.
Is that . . .?
“Lucas!” My dad waves the guy over and I smooth the front of my shirt, wishing I’d worn something a little nicer.
It’s not because Lucas is ridiculously good-looking, which he is. Or that he’s built like a man should be built, not overly swollen with muscles sculpted in a gym but lean and strong from hard work. Wide shoulders, cut biceps, and narrow hips. It also has nothing to do with the way he acts like I don’t exist, all but throwing up the challenge for me to prove to him that I do. And it certainly isn’t those rough hands that can create delicate works of art as well as swing a hammer. Even if those are the kinds of things that are bound to bring on the butterflies, they’re not it.
It’s just, we share something. The loss of a parent. That kind of mutual experience makes me feel exposed when we’re fifteen feet apart, let alone locked in a truck together.
Lucas adjusts his blue ball cap and closes the distance between us in long strides. “Mr. Jennings. Sir.” He tilts his head my way but avoids my eyes. “Ma’am.”
“I’m sending Shyann with you.”
Lucas’s frame goes rigid. He’s inconvenienced by the sudden company. Why the hell does that piss me off?
“She has the purchase order and will handle everything. You make sure those pallets are secure.” My dad fishes a credit card from his pocket and hands it to me. “For gas and lunch.”
I nod and shove it into my purse. “Great.”
“You two keep me posted. We need that tile on-site first thing in the morning, so do your jobs and don’t fuck up.”
“Yes, sir.” Lucas pivots and climbs back into the truck.
“But it’s okay for you to say fuck.”
His lips twitch. “Get gone now. Be safe. Don’t be too hard on my boy there. He’s fragile,” he says under his breath.
“Whatever.” I drag my feet to the passenger side of the truck and climb in.
The cab smells like soap with a hint of spice, sawdust, and diesel fuel. Lucas has his eyes forward, his hands fisted on the steering wheel. “Want me to drive?” I try not to stare at the scar on his neck.
He reaches down and fires up the engine by way of answer.
“Suit yourself.” I prop my feet on the dash and scoot down in my seat, making myself comfortable. If I were the type who could sleep while my life was in the hands of a virtual stranger, I would just to make things less awkward. Unfortunately I’m not.
We ride in silence for a good fifteen minutes and the strain grows between us with every passing mile. I reach forward and fumble with the radio dial, hoping sound will dull the roaring stillness. Everything is static coming down through the mountains, so I give up quickly and adjust the AC vents to blow on my suddenly heated skin.
“No radio.” I drum my fingers on my thighs. “So . . . listen, this trip is going to be hard enough; we may as well get to know each other to kill time.” His head is covered by his hat, and all I can see is thick hair the color of weak coffee that peeks out around his ears and neck. He’s in desperate need of a haircut. His mouth is set in a tight line, and his jaw ticks ever so slightly, but he remains silent. “Where did you learn to draw?”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, ma’am. Just always could.”
Man of few words.
I slap my palms on my thighs. “Where are you from?”
The muscles in his forearms jump. “Why?”
“Just trying to make conversation.”
He clears his throat, and his Adam’s apple bobs in those few seconds of silence as he contemplates his answer. “San Bernardino.”
“California. Very cool. Okay your turn.”
He plays statue, his jaw hard.
“Ask me a question. Anything you want.”
“I don’t—”
“Oh come on, just throw something out there.”
His hands flex and release on the wheel.
“First thing that comes to your mind.”
He chews on his bottom lip for a few seconds. “What is . . . uh . . .” More silence and I wonder if he’ll clam up on me and I’ll be stuck staring out the window for the next hour and a half. “Your favorite, um . . . color?”
“Green. See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I swear I can see the side of his mouth lift in a grin. “No, ma’am.”
“Why do you insist on calling me ma’am?”
He looks over at me, and for a moment I’m stunned to catch a glimpse of his eyes. They’re gray. Dark gray like storm clouds. But I don’t get a chance to look deeper, as he goes back to the road. “I . . .”
“Were you in the military?”
“No.”
“Butler at some fancy estate?”
Another tiny smile. “No.”
“Spend any time around the royal family?”