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Ophelia narrows her eyes in accusation. I am enjoying her like this. “Come on now, be honest, Spitfire, did you sleep all snuggly-wuggly in my jacket as though I was cuddling you?” The force is still strong within me to playfully flirt with her.
“What? No!” She scowls at me.Too easy.“Why did you even have a tracker with you?”
“Leftover from a job a few months back. I remembered I had it in my backpack in Shamus’s car.” Truth-ish.
“What job?”
“Well, we haven’t gotten to first base, so we haven’t played: Get to know some of Tucker’s secrets. But I can’t divulge my jobs to you, just like you can’t divulge yours. Confidentiality and all that jazz.”I present the get-out-of-jail-free card.“I bested you, so let’s leave it at that.” Poking the ashes might set off a spark.
She watches me in silence, letting my words settle.
I continue, “Because you hurt my feelings, I have come to collect on that date, Hamlet. It will go a long way to repairing the pain and suffering your swift departure caused me. I came by yesterday to formally ask you, but you were in town with a guy, so I spoke to your cousin and his wife—who, by the way, has given me her seal of approval to take you out for the morning. So, go take that bubble butt and throw on something—not that the pajamas and slippers teamed with the leather jacket aren’t doing things for me—but I do like your bubble butt in something tight.”
“This is not a date.” Hamlet doesn’t take the bait, choosing to ignore my bubble butt comment.
“Okay.” Whatever she wants to tell herself will still get me the date. It doesn’t much matter which way she wants to spin it in her head.
“You’re not funny.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I could say no.”
“You like me, so you won’t.”Cocky. Much?
“Let’s just say I agree to this. Where are we going at this time of the morning? Are we driving far? Do I need to make coffee?”
“Have you been hot air ballooning before?” I hope she says no, and this becomes one of our “firsts.”
Her eyes widen for a second in excitement before it gets wiped away. “Not yet. It is on my list of things to do. I just haven’t given myself a lot of free time since I started working long hours on the property.”
“Cool. Then I am glad to be doing it with you.”
“This is not a date,” she reminds me.
“Okay.”Yes, it is.
“I’ll go get dressed.”
“Okay.”Good girl.
“Stop saying ‘okay,’okay?” she grumps before doing a one-eighty and walking back around the corner of the homestead.
“Okay… I’ll wait here for you,” I call out, smiling because I won.
“You arenotfunny!” she holler-deadpans.How did she hear me?
“Wear my leather jacket. It looks good on you. And a T-shirt underneath because the flames from the burners are warm and practical flat heel boots.” I know she will have those because she’s my action-figure girl. Heeled boots are not practical to run in. “Think about how you would dress if you were sitting next to a bonfire,” I holler back, “and you have ten minutes to get ready!”
In eleven, Hamlet makes it back to me with her hair in a high ponytail, tight jeans, a feminine, dressy, short-sleeved cream blouse, and wearing my leather jacket. I’m inwardly strutting about crowing.
In a short time, she’s covered up her shiner with makeup and applied red lipstick. She doesn’t need anything else. I don’t even notice her stitches.
“Hamlet, you take my breath away.”
“Still not a date,” she protests.
I laugh at her statement. She ishilarious.
