“I don’t think you get what—”
“No, I do. Using looks as a form of measurement is just stupid because at the end of our lives, looks fade. In forty years, everything’s going to sag and get wrinkly. Personality, though? That’s the real attraction. That’s what should be measured.”
“Easy to say for someone who has a line of men waitin’ to ask her out. But I get it. Personality is the constant. I’ve never looked at it that way before.”
“And you, sir, are a twenty on a scale of ten when it comes to personality alone. I also would put you much higher than a six in the looks category.” He opens his mouth, but I put a finger up. “And I’ve seen you in a few different types of lighting.”
Laughing, Rhett finally locks eyes with me. “If only everyone thought the way you do. Every single person in this bar is wonderin’ what someone like you is doin’ wastin’ time talkin’ to someone like me.”
“Or maybe they’re making assumptions about me because they don’t know me, and they’re wondering what a man like you is doing wasting his time talking to someone like me.”
“What does that mean?”
My eyes fall to the table. Why does he always make me say the things I’d never say to anyone else? It’s like I can’t keep the thoughts in my head. “I know I’m a pretty girl, okay? And I’m not saying that to be conceited, but it’s a fact I’ve come to live with. It’s the only thing people see when they look at me, and I know assumptions come with looks like mine. About the type of person I am.”
“Like what?”
“Take your pick. If a girl’s too pretty, she’s bitchy and conceited. You said it yourself that you expected me to be like that when you first met me. Or, she’s looking for a man to pay her way through life. The one that bothers me the most, though, is when they assume there’s nothing beyond the face. Most people can’t fathom the idea that I might be interesting or funny or smart. They believe there’s only air between my ears. Sometimes it’s better to play the airhead, but it sucks.”
He reaches out to rub my shoulder, and I feel his touch across every inch of my skin as the goosebumps spread. “I think there’s more to you than your looks, Brynlee. And you should never have to pretend to be anythin’ other than what you are.”
“There are times it’s better to play up the dumb blonde angle. For some reason, women usually see others as competition, and if I’m both pretty and smart, I’ve bested them.”
“Because they wish they could be a beauty queen.”
I wish I’d never shared this with anyone now. “I don’t care how many pageants I’ve won—I’m no better than anyone else. Is it really that much to ask for? To be seen for who I am as a person and not what I look like? It’s part of the reason I wanted to get away from Chicago. Everything is so superficial that it makes me sick.”
Thinking about the life I almost had puts a damper on my mood. Where would I be right now? Out with Kevin eating an unsatisfying dinner by some fancy chef? At another function where I have to wear an evening gown and parade around as though I’m back on stage for everyone? I much prefer this.
“I’m sorry I assumed you wouldn’t be as nice as you are when we first met. I think I was just happy you didn’t spray me with mace when I stopped, but that’s more about bein’ a city girl than bein’ pretty,” he says, and his thumb caresses my collarbone.
His comment makes me smile, but it’s hard to think about anything else other than how much I like the feel of his touch. His skin is rough and his grip strong. And I want to feel it on other parts of my body, too. “I suppose I can forgive you.”
“Hey, how’s it goin’?” Darla asks.
She and Carter take the seats across from us at the table, and Rhett’s hand leaves me as he smiles. “It’s good. How’s the birthday?”
I hate how cold and dejected the loss of his hand makes me feel. I’ve never craved someone’s touch before. Not like this.
Carter rolls his eyes and groans. “It was good until Darla told me we have plans tomorrow.”
“Uh-oh,” I say and smile, imagining some type of flea market or farmer’s market outing. Something I’d love to go to. “You don’t like the plans?”
“Not particularly.”
Pushing his shoulder, Darla glares at him, and it looks like more than just friendly banter between husband and wife. “Suck it up, buttercup.”
“What are you doin’?” Rhett asks, and his laugh sounds forced. Weird. “Clearly not walkin’ to your death. From the sounds of it, you’d be a little more excited for that.”
“That would be much more pleasant,” he says. “She’s leavin’ the kids with your sister and draggin’ me to the county fair.”
“Gem?”
“Elena,” Darla says.
As much as I’m intrigued with the need to clarify which sister of his their kids are staying with, I stare with excitement. “County fair?”
“Yeah, you know, fried food, rides, 4H, some concert playin’ that will make my ears bleed, and more people than we have in this bar a thousand times over,” Carter says.
