“Nothing can be worse than showtunes.”
“Celtic?”
He looked at me. “Is that your music of choice?”
“Yeah.” Embarrassment had my neck disappearing into my shoulders. “But we’re not going to find a Celtic station out here. Do you have satellite radio?”
“No.” He began pressing buttons, the static of the radio changing every few seconds until finally he stopped on a channel.
Lush sounds of a mandolin and fiddle pervaded the truck.
I grinned. “Bluegrass. Next best thing.”
He grinned back.
We passed the ditch where my vehicle should have been but wasn’t. “Looks like Milton already grabbed my car.”
“Yep. Told you. Now relax and enjoy the ride.”
I glanced at him.
Could I? Enjoy the ride?
Brooks reached across the console and took my hand.
My belly swarmed with bats. I’d never been so aware of a man before. Like his mere presence just turned on an electrical low wattage current that vibrated beneath my skin.
Our drive was silent which was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I didn’t have to make small talk. A curse because it gave me time to overthink.
He turned onto Silver Street, the main drag of HuckleberryHill, and then found a parking spot across from Sweet Teeth.
Before he’d even cut the engine, I was unbuckling my seat belt. I opened the door and all but spilled from the cab.
“Ahh!” I cried out.
“Woman, for God’s sake,” Brooks grumbled. “Wait for me to help you.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I assured him.
“We should think about getting you a step stool,” he said, coming around the hood of the truck to take my hand again.
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t need a step stool.”
“Yeah, you’re right. You need a step ladder.”
I mock glared at him while tilting my head back to peer all the way up at him. “Quiet, Beanstalk.”
“I’m not a beanstalk. That implies I’m skinny.”
“No, beanpoleimplies skinny. Stalk implies . . . not.”
Chuckling, he waited for a car to pass and then he guided me across the street. He opened the door to Sweet Teeth, and I immediately breathed in the scent of sugar, cinnamon, and coffee.
A young blonde woman was behind the counter at the espresso machine, her back to us.
“Be right with you!” she called. A moment later, she muttered, “Blast. I just can’t get this coffee art right.”
“I’m not picky,” I said with amusement.
