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“Serious about what?”
“Man, Eryn Blake is like one of the most famous people in the world. You really didn't recognize her?”
“Which one was that?”
Mason laughed and made a right turn onto the county highway.
“Gray, you really are something else. You even have internet on your phone?”
I rolled my eyes. The guys were always giving me shit about not knowing pop culture bullshit or what the newest Netflix obsession was.
“I got more important things to do than play with my phone.”
He just laughed harder. I sunk down further into the seat.
“You're like my Grandpa Billy. Doesn't even own a TV.”
“I have a TV, thanks. I also have a fucking ranch to run, so excuse me if I don't spend all my time looking at it.”
It was at that point I realized I sounded exactly like Grandpa Billy. Mason howled with laughter now. Howled. Like a damn wolf.
“Alright, whatever. Who is this Eryn person?”
“That one with the long brown hair.”
Damn.
“She's this big influencer. Abby loves her. Got started on Instagram I think, but she's everywhere now. Even had her own travel show for a bit.”
“That's it?”
“All it takes, I guess. I don't know. Her father's some billionaire. Some people just become famous for being famous. But she seems cool. Supports small businesses a lot.”
“You sure know a lot about her.” I didn't like that.
“Gray, everyone knows a lot about her. You and Grandpa Billy are probably the only ones who don't.” He laughed again and turned into the ranch drive.
“Well it doesn't matter anyway.”
“No, I don't suppose it does.”
“I'm not doing it.”
“Oh yes you are. You remember what happened when you crossed Marge back in senior year?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Memories of scrubbing the diner kitchen with a damn toothbrush flooded my mind.
Mason parked the truck and we hopped out. He leaned against the hood, watching me with an amused expression.
“Don't worry, Gray. It won't be so bad. Just take them on a short trail, show them a few waterfalls, and be done with it.”
We headed over to the stables where Walker was finishing up with some horses. He glanced over at us, a smirk playing on his lips.
“So,” he said, drawing out the word, “heard you're playing tour guide for some city slickers?”
I shot him a glare. “Don't you start.”
Word traveled fast 'round Whittier. I'd be surprised if Walk had gotten any fewer than five texts about Marge's plan. Which just went to show people really did spend too much time on their damn phones.
