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“Can we do it?”

He runs his hand up to my knee, gripping it gently. “Sure, baby, let’s do it.”

I sit and turn the music up a little higher as we speed down the almost empty highway. I wonder if this is what it feels like to have a man, not a hookup or someone who makes me cry over their texts. A real man, like him. That’s a visual I turn over in my head until he clears his throat and lifts his hand to point.

“I think that might be it.”

Struggling upright, I get back in my seat. Up ahead, in the late afternoon sun and heat shimmers, I catch sight of three long motel buildings appearing from the cacti. The closer we get, the more I can make out—and I’m thrilled to see an enormous pool surrounded by striped beach chairs. We crest the hill, and there it is, bigger than I imagined. The office is painted pink and white striped, and the window hangs wide open, a woman with blonde hair piled on her head hanging out to chat with a tatted up guy on a motorbike. He’s flirting hard, but I can tell by how she’s popping her gum that she’s less than impressed.

“Well,” Coen says, cutting the engine, “this is exactly what I thought it would be from the name.”

I glance over the parking lot littered with cars. “It looks like this is the place to be,” I say. “At least at four-thirty on a weekday afternoon. In the middle of the desert.”

He jerks his head, getting out. I follow him around the truck. The motorcycle man sees us coming and revs his engine, skirting out of the way so Coen and I can take his place. The woman behind the counter is around Coen’s age, and she’s got a hardened look to her, like she’s worked here a while. She also reminds me a little of Pamela Anderson, which I love. It fits the whole vibe. Her name tag says Lula.

“Hey, cowboy,” she says. “And cowgirl. What can I do you for?”

“We’d like a room for tonight,” Coen says, taking out his wallet. He removes his ID, and I catch a glimpse of it for the first time. It never occurred to me until now that his real name might not be Coen, but it looks like his name is actually Neil Coen Taylor. I can’t really see him being named Neil, so it makes sense he’d pick something a little more unusual.

“You’re in luck,” she says, tapping on the computer just inside the window. “We had someone leave early, so our biggest suite is open. You want it? It’s right by the pool.”

I open my mouth to say we don’t need anything fancy, but Coen hands over his card.

“Sure thing,” Coen says. “I think the missus wanted to go swimming.”

I freeze, shooting him a sharp glance. He pushes his sunglasses down just enough to give me a look right back. Part of me wants to argue with him about calling me that, but part of me is kicking my feet. Even though…it doesn’t mean anything.

It really doesn’t.

“Alright,” Lula sings out, spinning a bright pink keychain with a flamingo on it in a loop and dropping it in Coen’s hand. “It’s straight through the gate, walk around the pool to the left, and it’ll be the furthest door. Number is on the keychain.”

He thanks her, and she disappears back into the office, window swinging shut, likely trying to dodge the motorcycle man. I put my hand on my hip and look him up and down.

“Missus?”

He shrugs. “That’s what I told Larry, though not on purpose. It kinda sticks.”

“Who is Larry?”

“The older gentleman who helped me catch the fish when we were camping.”

He jumps down from the curb and goes to haul our bags from the back seat, slinging them over his shoulder. Then, he flashes a smile and winks at me, and I see the movement faintly behind his shades. For a second, I see a little bit of the man who was shaking hands and signing napkins at the cafe. Is that bad? Or is that progress? Because when he showed up at the ranch, he was depleted.

I follow him through the gate.

It didn’t hit me until right now that he’s changing a little bit. It hasn’t been all that long since we met, but, Lord, he was so serious, so closed up, when he stepped out of that truck in our driveway. He’s a long, long way off from being carefree, but I’ve noticed the lines of his body have relaxed. The way he talks is a little bit different. Instead of everything sitting in his chest, he’s got a nice little drawl that sounds like he picked it up in Tennessee.

And he’s teasing me. I never imagined he’d like teasing me when we met.

I like it, maybe too much.

He circles the pool, me at his heels. This motel looks like something out of the seventies in the best way. It’s also pretty packed, but not uncomfortably so. There’s a family in the shallow end, two women beneath striped umbrellas, a handful of guys who look like blue collar workers, another family sitting on their porch. Judging by the number of cars, there has to be more. It’s got a nice, homey, but not overcrowded feel to it.

“I like this,” I say, pausing while Coen unlocks the far door.

It’s bright pink inside, like Pepto-Bismol pink. I gasp, and Coen smiles, stepping aside to let me in first. Over the bed is a huge painting of palm trees out in Hollywood. It smells faintly like vanilla, and everything is lit by a pair of lamps in the shape of bikini -clad women holding cocktail glasses. They cast a warm glow over the shag carpet.

“Well, this is new,” says Coen.