Fuck.Harleigh is relentless.
I tap the screen and open the text message to tell her just that when a photo comes through.
A bright pink drink on a scarred wooden bar.
Doc: Not a spritzer.
I snort.
I should ignore it, like I have all the other messages my brother and cousin have sent tonight.
I should, but …
Me: That looks like fucking Kool-Aid.
Doc: It’s a Pink Señorita.
Me: They serving liquor at the park now?
Doc: Nope. We are at the honky-tonk.
Me. Oh hell. The Storm girls got you drinking tequila?
Doc: Maybe.
Me: That’s a yes.
Doc: Actually, a handsome cowboy bought it for me.
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
Me: Cabe should’ve gotten you whiskey.
Doc: Why?
Me: Because that’s a real drink that will put hair on your chest.
Doc: Cabe didn’t buy it.
Doc: Do I need hair on my chest?
I groan as an image of her in that teeny white bikini top flashes in my mind.
Me: No. Your chest is perfect.
A beat.
Doc: How would you know?
I pause.
Me: River.
That’s all I give her.
Three dots appear and disappear. Several minutes pass. Then …
Doc: I like the hair on your chest.
