“I thought Kenleigh and I would take Lucy and Jane out of the stall and walk them in the corral pen,” Wes answers before I can speak.
“I figured I could take Autumn out for a while later on, too. That is, if you don’t mind Mr. Will?” My eyes flick between Wes and his father.
“I think it all sounds great. Lucy and Jane could both use an introduction to the corral pen. And I know Autumn would love to go for a ride. Just not anything too strenuous, okay?” Will nods as Sandy places his food in front of him.
A smile graces my face as I watch the love between Mr. and Mrs. Adams. With that smile comes a sense of longing as I remember how my own mom and dad looked at each other in the exact same way. I push the memories back and finish my food. I rise from the table and rinse my plate before depositing it in the dishwasher.
“Mrs. Sandy? Do you need help cleaning up?”
“I got it. You go ahead. I know you have things that you wanna do.” She shoos me out of the kitchen.
“Actually, I need to run into town. Do y’all need anything while I’m out?” I ask.
“I need to pick some stuff up too,” Wes answers. “Why don’t I come with you?”
“All right, I’m just going to get my stuff from my room. You’ll let me know when you’re ready?”
“Yeah, just give me a few minutes.”
With that, I disappear upstairs and into my room. I check myself over in the mirror, taking in my white washed, cutoff, denim shorts, brown tank top, and brown cowboy boots. With a couple swipes of mascara and some lip-gloss, I’m ready to go. As soon as my hand touches the doorknob, it vibrates from the knock on the other side. I pull it open to see Wes on the other side. His eyes roam up and down my body. I roll my eyes at his audacity. “You ready?”
“Yep. You want to take your Jeep or my truck?” he asks, giving him me the option.
“Your truck,” I say, exiting my room. “On one condition—”
“If you can drive it,” he interrupts.
I know I’m wearing a cocky-ass grin, but he drove my Jeep last night, so it’s only fair that I get to drive his truck. “That’s right. I wanna drive it. So, what’ll it be?” With my hand on my hip, one corner of my lip turned up, and an eyebrow arched, I wait for him to answer me.
I watch the wheels in his head turning, before he finally huffs out a puff of air. “Fine, you can drive her, but only if you’ll hang out with me tonight.”
“Fine,” I reply, short and sweet. I can handle hanging out with Wes if it means I can drive his sexy ass truck. “You ready?” I stick my hand out and wait. When the cold metal of keys meets my palm, I squeal like a kid on Christmas morning, and haul ass downstairs before he can change his mind.
With the windows down and Wes in the passenger seat, I pull onto the long, winding driveway that leads to the main road. I reach over to turn up the music but Wes stops me by placing his hand on mine. “Before you do that, we need to go over some ground rules with my truck.” His tone is serious and it takes all the will power I have not to laugh at him.
Slowly, my head gravitates in his direction, giving him an incredulous look. Ground rules? He can’t be serious. Not able to contain it any longer, I erupt into a fit of laughter. “What? You can’t be serious?” I ask, laughing even harder, tears gathering in my eyes.
“Right there,” he says, pointing at me. “No laughing. You need to stay focused on the road.”
I snap my mouth shut and press my lips into a hard line as I try to hold in the laughter that is begging to break through. No laughing? What the fuck?
“No loud music either. It’s a distraction.” He places my hand back on the steering wheel.
My head whips in his direction, and with an eyebrow arched, and a mischievous smile, I look between him and the road. “So, if I did this,” I say, turning the music up loud. “Would that be breaking one of your rules?” I yell over the booming sounds of Jake Owen’s Eight Second Ride.
“That’s not funny,” he grumbles and turns the music back down to a barely audible level.
“Oh, come on. It was a little funny.” I chuckle, and show a smidgen of space between my forefinger and thumb.
I can tell he’s doing his best to fight a smile, but then he adds, “Avoid potholes. I don’t want my rims scratched up.”
Automatically, I swerve and hit the mother of all potholes. Wes bounces up out of his seat, and bumps into the door as his hand flies to the oh-shit handle above his head. I bust at the seams with laughter when I see his face. His eyes are the size of saucers. He has a white-knuckle grip on the handle above his head, and his posture is as rigid as a cliff overlooking the water, unyielding to its element. “You think that’s funny?” he asks.