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I thought washing sheep was bad. This was worse.
Way worse.
Mom hadn’t been kidding when she said she’d sign me up for that basket weaving class at the library. She’d driven me over here this evening in her van and practically shoved me out the door with an order to bring home my fabulous creation so she could proudly display it on her hutch at home.
I probably could’ve used my spontaneous entry into the Junior Rodeo Queen competition this morning as a trade-off to get out of it, but for some reason, I hadn’t mentioned it to her.
Part of me was still unsure about this whole operation. It was so not me. I’d already made a fool of myself once. Who knew washing sheep was so difficult?
Maybe it wasn’t too late to back out. The stiff and disapproving Ms. Gentry might have me assassinated, but that was a risk I was willing to take. Public humiliation in front of an entire arena of Rock Valley citizens was not.
Not that this basket weaving class didn’t contain plenty of embarrassment of its own. Everyone here was at least three times my age. One shriveled old man had to be nearing a hundred. The teacher was a hippy by the name of Joey with stringy brown hair, a goatee, and an accent that made me think he’d spent several years living in a tent on a beach and catching waves.
“You gotta feel the flow of the basket, dudes,” he said, walking around the group to observe as we attempted to build our own baskets. This was, of course, after a lengthy explanation about the artistic nature of grasses and a lecture about feng shui thrown in there for funsies.
The woman next to me had her heart set on making an elaborate picnic basket. I’d opted for the least time-intensive version. Mine was a basket for a family of mice. Well, it would have been, if I could actually weave it correctly. It was probably better fit for the trash. Not even the mice would want it. But despite all that, it would still end up on Mom’s hutch because she liked anything I did, as long as it didn’t involve underaged drinking and nearly getting myself drowned.
When the teacher had his back turned, I pulled out my phone in a last fit of desperation.
Me: Help! Basket weaving is officially the worst summer class ever.
I’m gonna lose my mind.
Or strangle myself with grass. Not a pretty way to go.
It only took a few seconds for Hunter’s speech bubble to pop up on the screen.
Hunter: Need an escape?
Me: Desperately.
Hunter: I’ll be right there.
Meet me outside.
I smiled and then tucked my phone back into my pocket before raising my hand. It was time to utilize an excuse as old as time.
“Mr. Joey?”
He turned toward me, a vacant smile on his face. “Yes, young pupil?”
I glanced at the people weaving their baskets next to me and then motioned for him to come closer so I could whisper. “May I be excused? Mother nature isn’t being very kind to me today. My female organs are punching me in the stomach.”
His brows arched and then nodded solemnly. “You know, I think I have something that could help you with those problems. Ginger is useful for problems of the female nature.”
“No, no ginger necessary.” I smiled painfully at him, trying my best to keep up the ruse. Most male teachers I knew would’ve tuned out by now and sent me on my way. It seemed that Joey was a different species. “But would you mind if I left class early? I think I have a date with my heating pad at home.”
“Of course, little pupil,” he said, patting the top of my head. “Go. Be free. Contemplate the mysteries of the universe. And don’t forget your basket.”
I scooped up my sorry excuse for a basket and said my goodbyes to the group. Most of them didn’t even look up as I left. And when I got outside, Hunter’s beat-up powder blue truck was waiting for me. It had the toolbox on the back, rusted out spots along the sides, and a set of massively large tires. The door swung open as I walked up, revealing Hunter sitting in the driver’s seat with a cream-colored cowboy hat on his head.
His black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off once again made it impossible not to notice the amazing cut of the muscles in his arms. He was definitely ripped. Living on a ranch had been good to the boy. The smile he shot me was full of mischief and his eyes twinkled under the brim of his hat.
“Hey, pretty little lady. I don’t suppose you ordered a white knight escape plan?”
I had to work hard to haul my petite self up into the passenger seat, but it gave me time to hide the heating of my face at Hunter’s compliment. This blushing thing was such a strange new thing. I couldn’t wait for it to go away.
“Are you supposed to be my white knight?” I asked, grinning over at him as I buckled in.
