Page 6 of Small Town Boy

The pet name negates all of that though.

“Tell me ‘bout yourself.”

Noel’s deep, almost commanding voice vibrates through me, not only shaking me from my thoughts, but making my skin tingle. In a good way.

Okay, maybe not all of that is negated…

“Pardon?”

“Got a few hours ahead of us. Might get to know each other.”

I try to hold in my huff of a laugh, not doing a great job of it. I thought Willa said he wasn’t a conversationalist? Thankfully he doesn’t take his eyes off the road, so he can’t see me eyeing him up. His brown hair is longer on top than the sides, pushed back off his face. It clearly spends most of its time under a cap, the faint tan line visible through his hair. Mouth quirked in a lopsided smile, the scruff on his cheeks says lazy over trendy—as if he simply couldn’t be bothered to shave this morning rather than him going for a certain look. In fact everything about him was form follows function—he was clearly in this for comfort and purpose, rather than style.

“So, you want the info dump?” I joke.

“Info dump?”

His brown eyes flick my way for half a second, catching mine, making my heart skip. Like I’d been caught staring. Which, technically I had.

“The info dump. The part at the beginning of the book where the author dumps details and backstory of a character on the reader so they can know what is going on.”

“Oh.”

“Or I could give it to you in statistical form. Bronwyn, female, twenty-nine.”

Or I could give it to you in statistical form? Who the hell says that…

I suck in a breath, chastising myself. This is not me being myself. Where the hell is smart, quick-witted Bronwyn? She’s the one who needs to be making an appearance. Oh, that’s right, she was betrayed and then painted as the villain.

“I’ve never heard that term before.”

“Statistics?” I ask, not following where he’s going.

Noel chuckles. It’s a heady sound, once again making my skin tingle. What is it about this guy that is making my body react like some schoolgirl?

“Info dump.”

“Do you like to read?” I ask, hoping that maybe we can turn the focus off me, and that I could potentially get more than a few words out of him at a time. It was his idea to talk, after all.

“I make sure to get the Farmer’s Almanac every year.”

Right. Well, so much for that. I have no response to such a statement. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a Farmer’s Almanac, much less picked one up. Not exactly the most useful tool in Kenmore Square.

“You’re from up north,” he says. It’s not a question, but a statement of fact, as if it’s going to pry more information out of me.

“I am.”

“Raised up there too, by the sound of your Rs.”

“What’s wrong with my Rs?” I rebut. I know exactly where he’s going with this, but can’t help but get defensive on behalf of all Bostonians. Our accent is the butt of plenty of jokes. But not today. “I am not the one in this truck who talks funny.”

“Oh, but you are, honey.”

There’s that term of endearment again. I bristle, holding back a snarky comment. I try to tell myself it’s a Southern thing. That he doesn’t mean anything by it and is not trying to be condescending. He’s not trying to put me in my place, and probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Nonetheless, we’re not playing that game. I am not his honey.

“My name is Bronwyn.”

“I know.”