“Wha… What are you…?” His throat bobs with a gulp.
“The sun’s out this morning. I don’t want to cook once I’m strapped into the tank.”
He doesn’t even crack a smile at my joke. “Ye…yeah.” His gaze goes to the sky as he drags a hand down his face. “Right.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
“If it’s too much hassle—”
“It’s no hassle. You just caught me off guard by dressin’ up all nice like that.”
“This isn’t dressing up, silly. But I suppose it’s less buttoned up than what I usually wear to work.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “No buttons at all…” He darts a glance at the silk before he finds somewhere else to look again.
Is he…?My arms prickle with gooseflesh even though my cheeks are burning up.Is he checking me out?
No. No way. I’m imagining it. I’m fussy and overcomplicated. A man like Sawyer would never be interested in someone like me.
“We should, uh…” He roughs up his hair on a slow breath out. “Jesus. Let’s get goin’.”
The truck barrels downthe Tasman Highway, but the stretch of road is only one lane on both sides, and a whole song off the terrible CD plays before we pass another car.
“It’s not busy like Melbourne,” I say, watching as the never-ending blur of trees and rocky hills zip past.
“The roads are quiet down this way.”
Another song plays through without us saying anything.
“I was thinkin’…” Sawyer trails off.
I almost launch out of the seat from excitement. Finally. Will we talk now? I made everything so awkward by imagining him in ways I shouldn’t.
“Cain’s havin’ some people over tomorrow night,” he continues. “Nothin’ fancy. Just a cookout for everyone helpin’ with the festival.”
“Explain a cookout to me.”
“Everyone brings food to share. A salad or somethin’.”
“What’s your signature salad?”
He turns slightly, his eyebrow arched. “Do I look like a man who eats a lot of salad?”
I laugh. With a big, broad chest like his? Not likely. “Well, what do you take along then?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Steaks, maybe? I usually get conned into helpin’ out with the grill. Think you’ll come?”
“Try to stop me.”
When his attention shifts back to the road, the tense silence resettles into the car. Sawyer drums the steering wheel to the beat of whatever terrible song plays over the speakers, and, every so often, he sneaks a look at me from the corner of his eye.
I knew this was going to be awkward.
I slip the pink box out of my bag and hold it over my mouth. The next time Sawyer’s gaze slides in my direction, I waggle my eyebrows.
“Okay.” He sighs, but he’s grinning. “Let’s try your conversation cards.”
