Текст книги "Truth or Beard"
Автор книги: Penny Reid
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 25 страниц)
Tall trees rose high overhead on either side of the embankment and crystal clear water displayed colorful, rounded stones paving the shallow riverbed. I smiled at the sight of several children farther down picking their way across the rocks. Their chatter and laughter carried to us, even though they were at least fifty yards away.
Duane let go of my fingers and crouched down. I watched as he untied the laces of his boots and I understood his plan at once. I turned, found a boulder, and perched at the edge of it, slipping off my comfortable work shoes and math-themed socks and setting them on the rock.
The water would be cold, but that was no matter. I wasn’t planning on falling in this time.
When we both had our shoes off, we held hands again and waded in to the stream. It was only calf deep at the lowest spot, but it was relatively wide. In the spring it would be deeper, the water would move faster, and I wouldn’t be able to wear my sensible black pencil skirt without getting it wet.
“You okay?” Duane asked, his thoughtful frown still in place.
I nodded and bent down to retrieve a blue rock from beneath the water and straightened. I held the stone up to the sun and studied the veins of white running through it.
Then, apropos of nothing, I said, “When I was ten, my daddy bought me a three-year subscription to National Geographic magazine for my birthday.”
I glanced at Duane, found his thoughtful frown had been replaced by a thoughtful almost smile. “Is that so?”
I nodded, releasing his hand so I could walk a bit farther into the stream. “Yes. According to him, I’d wanted the magazine since I was four and a half. I first saw it at the library and asked Santa Claus for it every year. And it wasn’t the kid version either. I didn’t want the kid version. I wanted the real thing.”
“Why did you want it so much?”
“I loved seeing pictures and reading stories about the world, especially the places I didn’t know existed. I spent hours getting lost in the pages, imagining myself scuba diving in Fiji, hand-harvesting saffron in Greece, or working with Jane Goodall’s chimpanzees in Africa.” I glanced at him over my shoulder, wanting to see his reaction.
“Chimpanzees?” His smile grew.
“Yes. In Africa.”
The brightness in Duane’s eyes grew radiant, and felt almost overwhelming. He appeared to be pleased—more than pleased—yet I was surprised he didn’t look at all amused. Just interested and happy. Had I ever seen that look directed at me before?
“Do you still have a subscription?”
I shook my head. “No. My momma was cleaning my room about a year later and she saw the magazine had what she considered dirty pictures. Specifically, naked photographs of men and women, members of isolated tribes in South America.”
“Oh no!” Now he looked amused in addition to interested and happy. “What happened?”
“At first she was livid and made me go talk to Reverend Seymour about what I’d seen.”
Duane grimaced, like he was bracing for the worst. I waved his concern away as I turned to face him.
“It was fine. He’d listened patiently while I’d burned scarlet red, describing all the various body parts I’d been exposed to and my feelings on the subject of modesty.”
He laughed, really a chuckle, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. I liked the way his laugh sounded against the symphony of whispering water, rustling leaves, and bird song. I also liked the way he looked, ankle deep in a pure mountain stream, the blue sky and tall trees behind him.
Again, I found myself settling into the moment, taking a mental snapshot of his happy and handsome face. An inadvertent sigh escaped my lips, because I was happy, too. Duane Winston was a good listener.
I think I was staring, lost in the vision of him and a daydream, because when he spoke next the sound startled me a bit.
“Did Reverend Seymour take the magazines?”
I shook my head, mostly to clear it, and glanced at my toes. My feet were cold, but the cold felt good. “No. Eventually, he handed the magazine back to my mother and told her there wasn’t anything wrong with me learning about the world, but there might be if I formed my own conclusions without guidance. He suggested she use the magazines as an opportunity to discuss the world with me, that we should go through the articles together, and she should answer any questions I might have.”
“Well…that’s good, right?”
I met his gaze again, gave him a rueful half smile. “When the magazines came after that, my momma kept them locked in her closet until she could find time to go through them with me. For the first few months we’d sit down together after dinner and she’d explain things from her perspective even when I didn’t ask. I liked the one-on-one time with Momma, but it wasn’t the same, you know? The magazines lost their magic. I couldn’t become lost in pages and pictures and possible adventures when each article was dissected for faults and ungodliness.”
Duane’s thoughtful frown was back. I had all his focus and holding his weighty gaze was difficult. He was searching mine and something about his persistent interest made me feel vulnerable. Regardless, I held his stare with a half smile and eventually shrugged, blowing out a deep breath.
“I think my momma sensed my growing dissatisfaction, because after a time the magazines just piled up in her closet. They didn’t renew the subscription.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounded sorry.
My half smile grew and I shook my head. “Don’t be. It didn’t matter much because, by then, I was making monthly trips to the library and reading National Geographic along with Condé Nast Traveler and Wanderlust magazines.” The library was also where I discovered Internet travel blogs and first became a fan of Intrepid Inger.
“I remember seeing you there, always the first Saturday of the month.”
“That’s right. That’s when the magazines came in.” I studied him for a beat, more than a little surprised by the excellence of his memory. At length I decided to add, “I remember seeing you there, too. One time you switched out my travel magazines with urology journals, do you remember that?”
He nodded, one of his eyebrows lifted while he bit his lip as though to keep from laughing. “I remember.”
I squinted at him, unable to help my smile. “You were always there, helping your momma shelve books. You and Roscoe, sometimes Cletus.”
His eyes lost some of their focus, like he was recalling the memory. A foggy kind of smile passed behind his features, but it was abruptly replaced with a dark melancholy, like the memory caused him pain. As well he looked tired, bone-deep tired, almost like he hadn’t slept in days. I don’t know how I’d missed it before.
Impulsively, I crossed back to him and wrapped my arms around his waist, laying my cheek on his shoulder and squeezing. “I’m so sorry about your momma, Duane. She was a sweet lady and everyone misses her. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
He returned my embrace without hesitation, bringing me flush against him. I snuggled closer to his warmth, wanting to share some of my own, hoping I was giving him comfort.
“Thank you, Jessica,” he whispered into my hair, squeezing me, and repeating, “Thank you.”
We stood like that for a while, I don’t precisely know how long. But it was long enough for my mind to wander and for my thoughts to turn forward, to the future, to how nice it would be to have access to Duane-hugs daily. How dichotomously comfortable and thrilling it was to touch him, be touched by him.
And how perfectly we fit together.
CHAPTER 9
“All my days I have longed equally to travel the right road and to take my own errant path.”
– Sigrid Undset, Kristin Lavransdatter
~Jessica~
“I guess you’re getting ready for your date.”
I turned and found my brother standing in the doorway to my room. He said the word date like I might say jury duty.
“Yes.” I kept my response terse, because I was determined to avoid another lecture from Jackson. Lord knows how he found out about my plans with Duane for tonight. Regardless, he’d seen fit to throw a fit Thursday evening when I got home. I was still driving the Mustang, so that might’ve contributed to his temper tantrum.
I was not in the mood then, and I certainly wasn’t in the mood now. I was on my own merry-go-round of confusion because I missed Duane. And I was missing more than his face, eyes, hands, and circumcised penis.
In the end, I’d accepted the car as a loaner, but did not accept it as a gift. Secretly, I planned on working something out with Beau and Cletus, taking less for the truck as a way to compensate Duane for the use of his car.
I’d have to be careful, though. If he found out about my scheming to repay him then he’d be pissed. Yet for some reason the idea of quarreling with Duane made me giddy. I wondered if we would disagree about the color of the sky on our date, fall into our old habit of debating and making mountains out of molehills. The possibility was exciting.
I was a little strange. Just a little… Only a little.
Since seeing him on Thursday, I’d thought about calling him approximately one million times just to hear the sound of his voice, maybe talk him into going for a drive so we could argue minutiae and kiss.
I’d always been a big fan of kissing when done right. I loved the accompanying hot pooling and heaviness in my belly, the anticipation of more, the whole experience of eyes closed, mouth open, and hot hands.
Basically, up until one week ago, my experience with the opposite sex had told me that kissing was as good as it got. All of my previous encounters went sharply downhill after the kissing.
As well as kissing, planning elaborate trips I would one day take, and looking for ways to freak out my brother had been my top three pastimes when younger. Since maturing while away from home, planning trips were still at the top of the list, but kissing boys had drifted down to the low fifties; this was because ninety-nine percent of boys weren’t what I would consider good kissers.
In high school everything was new and exciting. But in college the newness had worn off and kissing had grown tiresome. This was because I was doing the kissing instead of being kissed, and I wondered if that was the fundamental problem with kissing boys instead of men.
Boys usually do something not at all enjoyable that makes kissing a chore. They’re either just a pair of passive lips, saliva slobberers, or tongue thrusters.
Whereas men actually kiss.
“You’re going to wear that?” Jackson lifted his chin, indicating my outfit.
I glanced down at myself. Seeing nothing wrong with my blue jeans, hiking boots, and long-sleeved purple Henley with the top four buttons undone. I returned Jackson’s scowl with a frown.
“And what’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Your shirt is half undone, your boobs are busting out, and those jeans are awfully tight.”
I crossed my arms under my chest and glared at my brother. “Are you calling me fat?”
“No. I’m saying that outfit doesn’t leave much to the imagination. I don’t want that Winston boy getting ideas.”
Meanwhile, I wanted Duane to get lots of ideas.
Because I really liked him. And Duane Winston kissed like a man, and not just any man. He kissed like he enjoyed kissing me just as much as I enjoyed kissing him. And his skills made me think kissing was just the beginning of far better things to come. It was truly the whole experience of eyes closed, mouth open, and hot hands—hands in which I had every confidence.
And, just like that, Kissing Duane Winston jumped to the top of my favorite pastimes, my favorites list. Actually, debating, talking to, holding hands with, and hugging Duane Winston were also now on my list.
I tossed my long, loose braid over my shoulder. “His name, Jackson, is Duane.”
“I know his name.” Jackson scratched his scruffy beard, sounding ornery.
“Then use it.”
I was feeling ornery too. Ornery and frustrated.
I’d just lived through Thursday night and Friday without any contact between us. Even now, almost time for our date, and especially in retrospect, something about the way Duane had said, I want to do this right, made me think he’d be withholding kisses tonight. Or, he was planning on giving me only proper kisses, and only at the end of the night, and done with respect, and mindful of who my parents were.
Lord help me, but if he denied me kisses in some misguided effort to be respectful, I was going to have to tie him to a tree and take them by force.
Jackson mimicked my stance, moving his hands to his hips, and gave me his brother-knows-best glare. “Now you look here, those Winston boys are a bunch of criminals and deadbeats, just like their daddy. Duane is known around these parts for driving like a bat out of hell and taking dangerous chances on those mountain roads. I’m not happy about you driving his car and I’m not happy about you spending time in the same zip code as Duane Winston, let alone going on a date with the sleaze-ball. ”
“You made your feelings perfectly clear on Thursday. And like I told you, who I see is none of your ever-loving beeswax.”
“You’ll see.” Jackson lifted his voice, looking both exasperated and angry. “And then after he impregnates and abandons you, all those silly dreams of traveling the world will be over. Your life will be over.”
I’m sure I was looking at Jackson like he was made of compost worms and boogers. The boy was crazy. “I don’t even know where to start with you and your lunacy. I know how birth control works, big brother, and—spoiler alert—putting a wrapper on the banana is ninety-nine percent effective.”
“There will be no bananas!”
“There will be entire tropical rainforests of bananas! And coconuts!” I gestured to my breasts. “And, hopefully, bananas rubbing against coconuts.”
He sucked in a shocked breath. If he had on a string of pearls I felt certain he would have clutched them.
Finally he managed to choke out, “Jessica James, you are being crude and unladylike.” My brother’s shock and outrage made him ridiculous. I knew he kept company with several girls in town, and I was sure his banana had been wrapped on more than one occasion.
Therefore I growled, “What century are you living in?”
“Going to college put wrong ideas in your head, Jess. I live in the real world and see guys like Duane take advantage of nice girls like you every day. And you think you’ll be able to just travel around the world like some homeless nomad? You wouldn’t last one week in the real world.”
I hated it when my family brought up my plans as though it meant I was a flake. I wasn’t a flake. Having an intense desire to explore the world and travel doesn’t make me a flake, damn it!
“Oh please,” I started ticking off his ridiculous hypocrisy using my fingers, “you still live at home—”
“So do you.”
I ignored that comment because I’d lived away from home and supported myself for four years in college. As well it was an inconvenient truth.
“Momma still does your laundry. I’ve never seen you even make toast successfully. You’re a glorified meter maid. The most excitement you get during any given day is giving people tickets for parking in front of a fire hydrant.”
Jackson’s brown eyes widened again and I saw his cheeks grow pink above his blond beard. I was being purposefully bratty and I didn’t feel bad about it. My brother opened his mouth like he was going to launch into another argument, but was mercifully interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.
Not waiting two seconds for him to regain his ability to speak, I snatched my purse from my bed and pushed past him, making a beeline for the foyer.
I ignored Jackson’s hollering from behind me as I yanked open the front door and pushed the screen door forward, almost catching Duane in the face with the wooden frame. Thankfully, he deftly stepped to the side, thereby avoiding injury.
“Oh goodness, I’m sorry,” I said in a rush, reaching for one of his hands as I placed a kiss against his cheek. I was frazzled, but I still took the opportunity to smell him. He smelled good, like shaving soap and a tart hint of automotive grease. Since he had a beard, the shaving soap part didn’t make much sense, but he smelled divine nevertheless. I also enjoyed the way his red beard tickled my chin when I leaned close.
“Hey, Jess. You look—”
“Let’s go.”
I tried to use my grip on his hand to tug him toward the edge of the porch and away from the house, but he dug his heels in and didn’t move more than two steps.
“Wait a minute, is your momma here?”
“No, come on.” I turned back to Duane, issuing a look that I hoped conveyed urgency, but was stopped short when I saw him.
I’m afraid my mouth fell open, a sure sign of my surprise, as my eyes moved over his form.
He was dressed in dark jeans, boots, and a blue button-down shirt the exact same color as his eyes; he’d rolled his shirtsleeves up, which showcased his strong forearms. His beard had been trimmed short—super short—so that the line of his strong jaw was easily discernible.
My goodness, but he was delectable.
My attention snagged on a frothy cloud of white and I saw he was holding a bunch of flowers. My eyes moved between him and the flowers, and I’m sure I looked entirely confounded.
“As I was saying,” Duane took a step toward me and I was struck by the sincerity in both his expression and tone, making me sway just a little at his ominous and heartfelt charm; he whispered, “you look beautiful, Jessica.”
I think I smiled like a smitten simpleton, my eyelashes fluttering of their own accord. “So do you, Duane.”
He smiled. It was small and magnetic. I took a mental snapshot; spending time with him confirmed my suspicion that Duane’s smiles were few and should be treasured.
I swayed toward him again. “Did you get me flowers?”
He shook his head, his voice still low. “No. These are for your momma.”
“My mom—”
“Don’t you leave yet!” Jackson’s voice thundered just as he appeared in the doorway, breaking our lovely moment. I couldn’t help myself, I huffed and rolled my eyes. I loved my big brother, but sometimes I wanted to cover him in honey and send him into a bear cave.
Duane stiffened a little, but he didn’t retreat. He turned from me, his eyes narrowing, and said, “Jack.”
I lifted an eyebrow at this. No one called my brother “Jack.” Everyone called him Jackson, or Officer James.
“Duane.” Jackson crossed his arms over his chest; his expression and voice were mean. “I don’t much like you thinking you can take my sister out.”
“Oh my God,” I said to no one and tugged on Duane’s hand again. “Just ignore him. Let’s go.”
But Duane didn’t move. Instead he used our connected fingers to draw me closer while he and Jackson gave each other the evil eye.
“This might come as a shock to you, Jack, but I’m not losing sleep over your good opinion. Now, are the Sheriff and Mrs. James at home?”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed further. “Why?”
“Because I’d like to pay my respects to the man and woman of the house before we step out.”
Jackson flinched, his eyes widening as they moved up and down Duane.
I took advantage of Jackson’s momentary speechlessness to answer Duane’s question. “No. Momma is still in Texas taking care of my aunt Louisa, and Daddy is on duty.”
Duane glanced at me while I explained, and I thought I saw something like disappointment pass over his handsome features. His disappointment made me feel both guilty as well as warm all over with pleasure.
He’d wanted to talk to my parents before we stepped out. Goodness.
“Oh. Well then…” He frowned as he studied me, then turned back to my brother and pushed the bouquet of flowers into Jackson’s hands. “Go put these in water before they die.”
Wordlessly, Jackson accepted the flowers, though he was still looking at Duane like he was something strange. I didn’t have a moment to dwell on any of this, because Duane pulled my hand into the crook of his elbow and escorted me down the front porch steps. We reached his car without another word between us and he opened the passenger side door. When he was satisfied I was settled, he shut the door and walked around the hood of his car.
My eyes trailed him. I watched him walk. I loved how he walked.
My heart didn’t know whether to sink or swim. All I could think about was that Claire had been right last Wednesday: Duane Winston was looking to court me—good and proper. And now that the evidence was unmistakable, I felt dichotomously dismayed and dazedly giddy by the prospect.
Duane fired up the engine and it was in this dismayed and dazedly giddy haze that I passed the first few moments of our drive. I was quite literally shaken out of my self-reflections when Duane navigated a series of switchbacks with imprudent speed. Even though I was wearing my seatbelt, I slid in my seat to one side then the other.
“Sorry,” he said, pressing gently on the brake to slow our velocity, then cleared his throat and offered by the way of an explanation, “I’m used to taking these roads fast. I didn’t mean to toss you around.”
I braced my arm again the passenger side door. “It’s fine. I just…” I shook my head. “I just wanted to apologize for Jackson, the way he acted. He was being unfair and unkind and we had words earlier. I’m sorry about that.”
Duane shrugged. “Well, he wouldn’t be much of a brother if he wasn’t overprotective. I feel the same way about my sister…” I got the impression he hadn’t quite ended his sentence and was proven right when he finally finished, “and my brothers.”
Duane’s gaze flickered to mine and he gave me a hint of a smile. I melted a bit at his rare smile, and I felt myself relax against the seat.
And that’s when I realized how comfortable the seat was.
And that’s when I finally took the three seconds required to actually look at this car in which I was riding.
It was old, a classic of some sort. The upholstery was teal leather and the seat was a bench style, the kind that allowed a passenger to snuggle up close to the driver.
“Duane Winston, what kind of car is this?”
He was in profile but I saw his smile grow. “It’s a ’68 Plymouth Road Runner.”
I studied the rest of the car, or what I could see of it. The two-door antique had a backseat, similar bench style to the front and everything was in pristine condition.
“It’s kind of small for the time, isn’t it? I mean, weren’t most Plymouths built at that time big old land cruisers?”
Duane’s hands tightened a bit on the steering wheel, his thumb caressing the inside of the circle. “It’s a muscle car, so it’s built for speed.”
I tried to remember what the outside of the car looked like, and could recall only basic lines and shiny black paint. “It doesn’t really look like a muscle car, not like the Mustang.”
“It’s got a 4-barrel carburetor engine, pushing out 335 horsepower—but, you’re right, the Road Runner doesn’t have any of that flashy chrome finish or plush doodads you see with other higher priced GTXs of the same era. It doesn’t need to be showy. Its beauty is in its simplicity. Simple, straightforward design…with hidden depths.” He paired this with an impressive engine growl, and accelerated lightning fast along a straight stretch of road. The car certainly was responsive.
I smiled at that, glancing around the interior once more and noting the lack of fussy trimmings. He was right, it was a stunning car. Its minimalism only contributed to its effortlessness beauty. But I could feel the untapped potential, its restless restrained power. It was sexy as hell.
“You’re right, it’s gorgeous.” Because I was obviously a horndog, talking about the hidden depths and restrained power of his muscle car was getting me hot and bothered. I decided to redirect the conversation toward hopefully benign territory. “Did you restore it yourself?”
“Yep.”
“Even the upholstery?”
“Yes. I restored her myself, even the upholstery.”
“Her?” I passed my hand over the bench, touching the leather with newfound respect and reverence now that I knew Duane was responsible for the flawless restoration. Based on this information, I presumed he’d also restored the Mustang I was borrowing.
I was happy to see his smile return as he halted and idled at a stop sign. Duane slid his pretty eyes to mine; I saw echoes of his hot look from the community center, though it appeared to be mostly restrained. “Yes, her. All cars are girls.”
My smile was huge as I was feeling delightfully unsteady under his perusal. “And why is that? Because they’re so pretty, useful, and hardworking?”
Duane’s eyes drifted down my body in an unhurried examination; the spark of heat and appreciation in his gaze made me suspicious of his true thoughts, which were only punctuated by his next words.
“Because when a guy sees a car he likes, all he can think about is getting under the hood or taking her for a ride.”
This time I threw my head back and laughed with gusto and shocked delight. This was the second time he’d done this, surprised me with his audacity. On Thursday, when he’d shown up at my work with the Mustang, I figured he was just trying to get a rise out of me, but now I saw this new banter for what it was. Duane Winston was funny. And a flirt.
In all the years I’d known him, and all the arguments and shouting matches we’d had, I never would have guessed that Duane was this funny. Or a flirt.
Sly? Yes.
Smart? Certainly.
Serious and stern? Undoubtedly.
Funny and flirty? No.
He was full of surprises.
As my laughter lessened and morphed into large grin, I turned in my seat and studied him openly. I had to shake myself a little. Before last Friday, never in my wildest—or strangest—dreams could I have imagined that Duane Winston would ever be interested in me, not because there was something wrong with me, but because he always left me with the impression that I irritated the bejeebus out of him.
Just like I never thought in a million years I’d be so completely drawn to him.
But here I was…
“What? What’s wrong?” He frowned at my examination, sparing me a quick glance as he turned right onto the Parkway.
“Oh, nothing.” I kept staring at him…but not him. I was looking for the Duane I remembered, the one who barely tolerated me, picked verbal sparring matches, and put lizards down my Sunday school dress. “I guess, it’s weird. Right? I mean, you and I grew up together. We used to run around these forests with the other Green Valley kids like a pack of wild animals.”
His subtle smile was back, but this time it looked nostalgic. “So?”
“So, here we are. We’re adults. And we’re out together.”
“We went for a drive on Thursday and you didn’t seem phased by it.”
“Yeah, but this is a date. See, I know you—I could tell anyone who asked that you’re a terrible swimmer, or how you drive too fast, or how you got that scar on your right arm, or that you’re better at baseball than any of your brothers—but I don’t know you. It’s like being on a date with two different people, the boy I knew and the…the,” I stuttered, then paused, stopping myself just in time. A slight rush of embarrassment made my tongue lame because I was about to say, and the sweet, gorgeous man you’ve become.
And that would have been a bizarre thing to say at the beginning of a first date. Honest, but bizarre.
“And the what?” he prompted, sliding his eyes to mine as he came to another straight stretch on the mountain road.
I cleared my throat, my chest a sudden and odd combination of achy and fluttery. “The kid I knew, and the man you’ve become. I don’t know this new you very well. It’s a bit disconcerting to feel confident that I know all about you, but have no idea who you really are.” I glanced down and frowned at my purple nail polish, certain I was making a mess of my thoughts. “I’m not explaining this very well.”
Duane reached over and grabbed one of my hands, sending a warm jolt up my arm and to my ribs.
“You’re explaining things just fine.” He squeezed my fingers and gave me a quick, reassuring smile. “When we were at the lake last week and I told you we’re different now, both of us have changed, that’s what I meant.”
“But don’t you think it’ll be weird?”
“So what? So it’s weird. Weird can be good.”
“We grew up together. I mean, when we were kids I saw you naked like…,” I counted in my head, “three times. Maybe more.”
“Is this your way of telling me that you don’t want to see me naked for a fourth time?”
I answered emphatically and without thinking, “Oh, hell no, you should be naked all the time.”
Duane’s grin was immediate; but his laughter was stifled, like he was trying to contain it. I rolled my eyes at myself once I realized what I’d just said and let myself feel appropriately embarrassed. My head fell back on the seat and I closed my eyes.
“See now, here’s the problem. I would never say anything like that on a first date, or even a tenth date.”
“I still don’t see a problem.”
“I’m too comfortable speaking my mind around you. Speaking my mind to Duane Winston is not just my default, it’s a moral imperative.” I announced this to the windshield as I opened my eyes and stared at the fall foliage lining the narrow road. Brilliant streaks of red, dark purple, orange, and yellow—a beauty I’d taken for granted as a kid—blurred together as we sped by
“That’s just because you’re used to arguing with me.”
“Yes. Exactly. First dates are like a job interview. It’s about putting your best foot forward, not arguing and speaking your mind.”
“Well, I’ve never interviewed for a job, but I can’t think of anything better than Jessica James speaking her mind.”
I shook my head at him, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair?”
“You’re saying all the right things. Whereas I’m being completely honest.”
He challenged lightly, “What makes you think these right things I’m saying isn’t me being completely honest?”
I blinked, then stared at him, at his profile. My heart sped at his last words and my breath seemed to catch. Pinpricks of awareness covered my skin accompanied by a nervous uncertainty. I averted my eyes back to the windshield and stared unseeingly forward.
Did I want to kiss the hell out of him? Yes, I did.
Did I want to wrap his banana and let him have his way with my coconuts? Yes. I wanted that to happen.
