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I watch his shoulders rise and fall. He’s going to say more. I realize I’m hungry for it. I wait, frozen, for another morsel—something to help me piece Kellan together. But he looks pensive. Like someone else just said all that, and now he’s noticed, he closes his lips.
I SAID TOO MUCH. I know it right away, because she clasps her hands together like she’s praying, and she doesn’t move at all.
Finally, when I’ve sat in silence for a few moments, she looks down at her lap and asks, “Where are we going, Kellan?”
I shouldn’t have told her that I followed her. What the fuck was that about? Goddamn.
“I thought I’d show you a grow house. I have to go there anyway. And after that, we’ll go to my place.”
Her eyes shift over me, and then back to the road. “Okay.”
But she’s not sure. I can tell she isn’t. Regret stings me, sharp and unexpected. “You think I’m an asshole.”
Her gaze drags over me, and then flits away. “I think you’re the wolf.”
“I’m not the wolf.” I squeeze the wheel. “Okay, maybe I am, but you’re not a lamb, Cleo. You’re a... dog.”
Her eyes fly to mine, wide with her already familiar indignation. “I’m not a dog! No way. Did you really just say that?” She goes full-on girl and bats her lashes in prim fury. “That’s an insult. Dogs are... loyal and comical, and sleepy. They chew on things and pee in public. Trust me, I am nothing like a dog.”
I laugh, and turn left under a bent pecan tree, onto the dirt road that is Pecan Way. “Dogs are man’s best friend, Cleo.”
She shakes her head. “So I’m a sleepy, loyal, drooling, chewing, flea-ridden yard dog, and you’re a wolf. And how is this better than me being a lamb?”
“You’re almost just like me, Cleo. But you’re the good version. You’re the version people want to take home, and to bed.” I give her what I hope is a devastating smile, and Cleo smirks back.
“I’m going to let this drop, Walsh, but it’s not over. I’m not a dog. I can’t stand drool or silent farts. To be completely honest, I’m really more a cat person. They groom themselves and stay out of the way. Loyalty—whatever that is? Cats give as good as they get.”
As we bump over the red dirt road that streaks beneath a copse of pecan trees, I wonder why she thinks she should only give as good as she gets. After watching her from afar for so long—after trying so many labels on her, from scared to treacherous to clueless—I’m almost surprised to find that Cleo Whatley is a real person. She’s nothing like I thought.
I remember her mouth around my cock and grit my teeth. I want to make it up to her. To take back all the observations I shared. I’m fucking weird sometimes—I know this. I shouldn’t have said something so strange. Certainly not if I want her staying at my house.
I think again about the amount of money I agreed to pay her and have to rub my lips together to keep from laughing.
“You know that you have dimples when you frown, but not when you smile—right?”
“I’ve been told.”
“That’s kind of weird.”
We pass a crooked green mailbox. There’s an old farmhouse at the end of that driveway, with an even older farmer pulling weeds. I shrug. “I’m weird. Not scary weird.” I look her in the eye. “I followed you to get an idea of how much you were dealing, Cleo. That’s all.”
She snorts. “Hashtag: were there any signs?”
My mouth curves up without permission. “You’re different... than I thought.”
“I hope that’s a compliment.”
“Mostly.”
She scoffs.
We pass a few more mail boxes mounted on a giant piece of plywood, and I veer right at a “Y” in the road, following Pecan as it rolls onward, deeper into thick, oak-pine forest.
“How am I different than you thought?” she asks.
I can’t help smirking. “More difficult.”
“How?”
