Page 39

Get a grip, Hattie.

I get into the Bronco and start the engine. When he slides into the passenger side, he glances at my mug. “Can I hold that for you?”

“Please. I do this every day.” I hold up the cup in a cheers and say, “Open Mug Club.”

I can tell by his expression he has no faith in my ability not to spill on myself.

I pull out of the driveway and onto the gravel road. “Do you mind if we check something quick?”

“I’m all yours, so you do what you need to do.”

We hit a bump, and my coffee sloshes. Close, but no spill.

Noble reaches over and takes the mug anyway. “I’m just going to go ahead and take this . . .”

“Oh, come on, I didn’t even spill,” I say, but my protest is weak because my mind snagged back on his innocent “I’m all yours.”

He shakes his head, then looks down at my coffee. “Do you take coffee with your sugar?”

I turn, and we amble toward the north meadow. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

He takes a sip of my drink and instantly groans. “That’s disgusting.”

I reach over and take the mug back. “You know what? You’re disgusting. Give me my drink and quit yucking my yum.”

He chuckles and hands it over. “Fine, but when your teeth rot out of your head, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Whatever.” Then, without thinking about it, I add, “It’s sweet. Just like me.”

It’s so easy to be this way with him. I mean, it was so easy. Banter, poking fun, even ripping on my brothers or working side by side on the ranch.

Part of me wants it to be like that again.

The logical part of me smacks that part upside the head.

I realize he stopped responding, and when I look at him, I pull the car to a stop. “What? I am sweet.”

“You’re a lot of things, Hattie, but sweet is not one of them.” He looks at me. “It’s one of the things I love about you. You tell it like it is. Always have. I sure hope that hasn’t changed.”

I force myself to stop repeating the phrase “It’s one of the things I love about you” over and over and resist the urge to ask what the other things are. Instead, I say, “Like when you were dating Lily Fletcher because her dad was the hockey coach, and you thought it would get you more playing time?” I roll my eyes.

“You read me the riot act,” he says, chuckling.

“You deserved it.” I get out of the car, aware that I like this friendly banter. Also aware that I shouldn’t. I close the door. “Besides, for all you know, I learned how to be as sweet as honey in the past decade.”

He meets me around the front of the Bronco, looks me square in the face, and says, “Man, I hope not.”

The words hang there, the hint of flirtation in them, and my knees turn to Jell-O underneath me. I try not to read into it, attempting light-hearted banter but end up with, “I guess you don’t really know me anymore.”

Okay, so, light-hearted is not my thing.

I’m struggling to think of a subject change when he cuts through the noise in my brain and says, “You’re right. I don’t. Definitely don’t deserve to either. . . but I’d like to, if you let me.”

I press my lips together and stand firm. “Well, in order for that to happen, you’d have to stick around, and we all know how good you are at that.”

The words fall flat and feel wrong coming out of my mouth. It happens when hurt talks instead of common sense.

He looks like he wants to say something, but he must think better of it because he just nods and stares off at something in the distance. I can see the muscles in his jaw tense.