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Brody takes his dirty, ever-present, camo-cow hat off his head and places it on mine backward. His thumb runs over my cheek, and this feels like a huge gift for a country boy like Brody.
“You look good in my hat, Erica.”
He slowly leans over and places a sweet, soft kiss to my lips. This is the first time we’ve kissed this particular kiss. Not sexy, not as a stepping stone to more, not even as a greeting, but just because we like each other and can’t stand to not tell the other person how much that means. His lips press against mine, and I breathe in his scent—sunshine, dirt, sweat, a little alcohol . . . and mine.
He’s right. Casual left a long time ago, and I’m glad to finally acknowledge that because I want more of these kisses, more days with Brody where I can tease that hard-to-get full smile to his lips, more nights making him lose his words, and more of a life making him trust me to have his back. Always, no matter what. I want him to know that I’m here for him and trust him to be there for me, because I choose him.
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
I do. I choose him. For the first time, I’m choosing something for me, not as an escape from something else like I did with the military, not like racing for my dad, even if I can’t tell him that now. But Brody? I’m choosing him . . . for myself, which makes us feel that much more important.
He leans back, and I feel the loss of his closeness until I see the shine in his dark eyes. He might be in his seat a few inches away, but he’s with me in this all the way.
“You ready for this, Lil Bit?” he asks, that cocky arrogant smile turning his lips up. He’s not talking about a farm tour.
“Might be the other way around, Cowboy. I can handle damn near anything, so what you should be asking is if you’re ready for me.” I can do cocky too.
“Fucking badass ball-buster. Let’s go.” He doesn’t give me a chance to respond, putting the vehicle in gear and pulling out of the barn. As soon as we’re clear, he gives the pedal a good push and shows me what he can do. He might not be a racer, but he’s a wild and reckless cowboy through and through, speeding across the grass as I hang on for dear life. This isn’t smooth and sleek engineering careening straight down a track. We’re bouncing and rambling over hills and ruts, my ass only meeting the seat every few seconds and my hands bracing on the oh-shit handle and the dash. I’m not embarrassed to say I scream out like a damn girly girl a few times. Okay, I take that back . . . I am embarrassed, but only because Brody is sitting in his seat like a damn steady rock, leaning into every donut like he’s done this a thousand times and laughing his fool head off.
“I’m gonna get you back for this,” I threaten, knowing that I’m gonna push the limits if I ever get him to ride bitch in Foxy when I race. We’ll see if he likes that. On second thought, he probably would.
The camo-cow hat flies off my head when he does a quick turn, and I yell out. He glances at me and lifts a sardonic brow before turning around. He doesn’t stop, only slows to a crawl as I lean out to pick up the hat from the dirt. I feel a pinch to my ass and jump, only to hear him laugh. Still on a mission, I grab the hat, bonus dirt and all, but this time, I pull it on facing forward with my hair through the hole at the back, hoping that’ll help it stay secure.
Brody nods his approval, and at a more reasonable pace, he drives me out to see the farming operation—the ‘home garden’ that grows for Tannen and Bennett usage and the ‘business plots’ that are reserved for Shay’s products and the crops they sell at the farmer’s market. After explaining the differences, he shows me the cattle, who come ambling toward the Gator as we approach.
“They think it’s feeding time,” he explains. “Which it’s not,” he tells the cows, though they probably can’t hear him from here. Actually, I don’t know . . . do cows have super hearing?
We get out and walk over to the barbed wire fence, which seems like nothing to get through if they decided to mosey on wherever they want. “Can I touch them?”
“Yeah,” he says over the animals who are mooing in anticipation of his paying them a little loving attention. I feel ya, ladies . . . he’d get a moo from me too. Except that’s weird, so maybe not a moo, exactly?
