“What?”
“The phrase is ‘Icouldn’tcare less’ otherwise, you’re admitting that thoughts of me and my imaginary paramours are keeping you up at night.”
She scowled and pointed her dripping paintbrush in my direction. “I am not thinking about you at night or any other time.”
Her heated gaze, her forceful denial ... it brought me a familiar sense of accomplishment. It also put us firmly back into normal territory. I’d tried the nice thing again, and it had been going well until I’d gotten nervous and messed it all up. Falling back on my old antagonistic ways was easy and comfortable. And it was a hell of a lot better than getting tongue-tied and having Mac thinking I’d called her a slut.
This was alright. I could fix this. Maybe not tonight. But eventually, we’d have a conversation and figure out where things stood, talk about that kiss, and see if it meant anything to her. I wasn’t good at being patient, but this felt too big, too important to rush.
For now, she could rail at me and threaten to paint my face like a jack-o’-lantern. Because it meant I still had her attention. I was still in this. Mac sure as hell wasn’t ignoring me anymore.
Later that night, when I couldn’t sleep and my chocolate chip protein muffins were baking in the oven, I pulled out my phone.
My gaze caught on the printout I still had on my fridge. The surly, embellished, and inaccurately illustrated version of Mac glared back at me.
Standing in my kitchen, I opened the Chatter app. In the compose box, I typed ...
@JuddsFamilyOrchard: @GrandpappysApples, I know my mustache tickled, but I barely noticed yours at all.
Then I chuckled quietly to myself and backspaced over the whole thing.
Swallowing, I started again.
@JuddsFamilyOrchard: @GrandpappysApples, That was the best kiss of my entire life, and I’m terrified I’ll never get the chance to do it again.
With a sad smile, I made sure to hit the button that would save my draft rather than post it. I couldn’t say any of that to Mac. She wasn’t ready to hear it.
And, honestly, neither was I.
seven
MAC
I squeezed my cell phone to within an inch of its life and was pretty sure I heard some plastic cracking.
I was used to the snipes on the Chatter app. Brady and I battled it out on social media all the time. But sometimes that man was so annoying, I wanted to get him alone and wrap my hands around him and?—
Abruptly, my mind took a mini vacation to the front seat of Brady’s pickup truck. I’d wrapped my hands around him alright, but not in a violent sort of way. I thought of the sweetness of his kiss, the citrus on his tongue, and his thumb pressing the dimple in my chin.
I’d been doing my best to prevent any thoughts of that impromptu make-out session. Avoiding Brady had been at the top of the list. But then I’d seen a row of orange Tic Tacs by the register at the gas station, and my traitorous hand had reached for a pack.
The pumpkin-painting event at Judd’s had been the first time I’d interacted with him since the kiss that shall not be named. I half expected him to announce it to all my family and friends. But what I expected even less was his attempt at a normal conversation. It had backfired, of course. We weren’t conditioned for that sort of thing.
Now, nearly twenty-four hours later, sitting in the Grandpappy’s pumpkin patch booth, I covered my face with my hands and fought a growl.
I didn’t want to think about Brady Judd. I didn’t want to know what his lips felt like (surprisingly soft). I didn’t want to know the sounds he made when he was turned on (needy, desperate, admittedly hot). And I definitely didn’t want to see his stupid social media posts when I was busynotthinking about him.
@JuddsFamilyOrchard: It’s a fine day at the farmers’ market. Nice and peaceful. Just letting the locals and tourists alike know it’s safe to venture downtown. The harpy that usually haunts Main Street every third Saturday is on vacation.
I’d traded shifts specifically to avoid Brady today, and this was his super mature response. It was almost like he couldn’t stand not having my attention. If I was going to skip out on our regular market interaction, then he was going to make sure he took a swipe at me in two hundred and eighty characters or less.
I shook my head and tucked my phone beneath the counter of the booth. I didn’t want to see any more. It would just make me reply or force my blood pressure up ... or both.
After another frustrated growl, I stepped out of the tiny shack that was big enough for one person, a stool, a heater, and a cash box. When folks picked out the pumpkins of their dreams, they brought them to me for pricing and payment.
Grandpappy’s had closed ten minutes ago, and the stragglers were finally making their way toward the parking lot, purchases in hand. Thankfully, we only had another week until Halloween. But then this part of the farm turned into a Christmas tree lot, so it was just more of the same in a different season.
There were wheelbarrows and metal garden carts scattered around the enclosed area. Customers used them to transport their pumpkins. I needed to gather and lock them in the shed for the evening. As I moved around the space, I was grateful for the mild October weather. It was supposed to dip into the forties tonight, but it had been a gorgeous, sunny day.
