She smiles. "Well, if he is, he’ll eat his heart out."
I roll my eyes, then slap the hat on my head.
Two wagons are already hitched up at the top of the lane when we walk over, with big palomino draft horses swinging their tails briskly. The sky has gone that watery pink-gold it gets before sundown. The smell of hay is everywhere. There are maybe thirty other guests milling around—families with kids, couples, and clusters of women who have clearly all had some alcohol with dinner.
And leaning against the back of the wagon with his giant arms folded is Garrett.
He’s in a flannel-lined denim jacket, black T-shirt, and that same black hat.
Damn, he’s fine.
I keep my face neutral. Cool as a cucumber. I’m a creature of the earth, a still mountain, a stoic stone.
"He'shere," Lyla whispers behind me.
"Yes, I see him."
She giggles like an idiot.
"Jesus, Lyla."
"Oh!” Lyla says, loudly. “Let's get on, Laurel, come on—" and loops her arm through Laurel's, dragging her around me, then clambering up into the wagon like as if they’ve rehearsed this, finding the only open spots to sit, besides the one right next to…
…him.
I glance up.
A big hand is stretched down toward me. “Evenin’, Lark.”
It’s weathered and huge, with soot ground into the creases of his knuckles. I know that hand. And I have, as it happens, pictured it about nine thousand times since then doing things that had nothing to do with metal.
I take it. “Howdy,” I reply.
He pulls me up like I weigh nothing. But I know I’ve got plenty of curves and muscle to give me mass. He’s just strong as an ox.
Our eyes lock when I come up to him. The brim of his hat nearly bumps mine. His mouth is set in that casual line as if nothing in the world is happening, except his dark blue eyes say something very different.
I turn and clock my two so-called best friends, behind us. Lyla has her chin on her fist, staring at me, and Laurel is pretending to be absorbed in a piece of straw.
Lyla shrugs and calls out. “Sorry Lark, no more room over here. You should stay on that side.”
I give her a look, then sit next to Garrett on the last bit of bench.
Our thighs have no choice but to touch…from hip to knee. His legs are so thick and bulky, they make mine seem like a child's in comparison.
My eyes naturally move upward.
Don’t look at his crotch, Lark. Just don’t.
But I do.
God.
So this is how I die.
The wagon lurches forward with a jingle of harness and we roll out down a dirt track between the fields, the palominos' big hooves clopping steady in the dust. The light is going. The bluebonnets in the pasture are a hazy blue-purple that could almost be fake, and a handful of deer lift their heads in the tall grass to watch us pass.
Every bump—every rut and hole and dried-out tire track—shoves my thigh into his. I’m aware of every second of the ride in a way that makes my spine feel as if it's plugged into a wall outlet.