“Babe.”
“Hmm?”
“What's the worst that's going to happen if they don't like me?”
She shakes her head. “I don't know.”
“Exactly. Literally nothing?—”
“What ifyoudon't like them?”
I shrug. “Again, nothing.”
“Really?” she replies, her tone so unsure, her voice verges on shaky.
I’m trying to read between the lines, but the only thing I can come up with is, “Ruby, do you think that if I don't like your parents, it’ll come between us?” Her head drops, and I tuck two fingers under her chin and gently tug it up to face me. “Hey, you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.”
“Yeah?”
Her hair is styled in long, thick waves today, and I tuck my fingers underneath it, pushing into her nape. The movement pulls her toward me, her mouth on mine. Teasing along the seam of her lips, she opens enough that I can sweep my tongue against hers. She tastes like the mints we were given as we left the plane, along with remnants of a vanilla lip balm.
I fucking love kissing her, I love the way she sinks into me with a quiet moan. It’s like a permanent reset to my nervous system.
But knowing we’re in the back of a car with no privacy divider, she pulls away before it gets too deep and shoots me a smile.
“Yes. Forever.”
“I kind of like the idea of forever.”
“What a relief,” I reply with a laugh, smacking my lips to hers again.
“Do you think everyone's okay at the yard? Do you think Mav’s okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. I think everyone will survive the five days we're gone.”
“Five?Fivedays?” she asks, eyes flaring. “I thought we were only seeing my parents today. We’re not staying five days.”
I grin. “No, we’re not.”
Her nose scrunches with confusion. “Then . . . ?”
“How d’you feel about taking a little detour home via the Bahamas?—”
“Shutup.” She slaps me hard on the chest. “Seriously?”
I laugh hard. I mean, a trip to the Bahamas always warrants the kind of delight rivaling a child on Christmas morning, but I get such a kick out of seeing it on Ruby’s face, especially because I put it there.
And it’s with that enthusiasm we arrive at her parents’ farm—a big, white house, with a wraparound porch, a swinging bench, and a garden filled with fruit trees. Chickens roam freely, a couple of cats are lying on the balustrade, and at the sound of the car approaching, a pack of dogs appears from around the corner, rushing out to welcome us just like at Burlington.
In the distance is an enormous workshop, its big doors wide open, and I count three John Deere tractors of varying sizes, plus a combine harvester. Mr. Lanson is running a serious operation here.
“Is this where you grew up?”
Ruby nods, her eyes dropping. “It’s not fancy?—”
“Don’t do that. I like it.”
What I do find odd, however, is thatonlythe animals arrive in greeting, even when we get out and take our bags from the boot, and the driver leaves. I peer around, waiting for someone to run out and hug Ruby, but no one comes.
