AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Sure, why not. Let me change first, smartass.” I pass along my motel and room number, and he promises to pick me up in an hour and a half. Enough time to take a quick shower and throw something on. Maybe put on some mascara and lipstick.
There is a knock on my door. “Hey, you found it, come on in,” I tell him.
I can’t help but smile. The guy has the whole ‘I’m a snowboarder’ vibe down to the max. Dark Dickies pants with Vans, a Kurton long-sleeved shirt, and a Red Bull beanie on his head. He lays his snowboard jacket on the bed, looking around my room. I tidied up a little. I’d gotten some new stuff in from a friend who picks up clothes for me on the East Coast. There are more boxes in my room than in a Fed Ex truck. He stares at the freckles on my arms, and I quickly push my sleeves to my wrists.
“I’m almost ready,” I tell him, putting on a black leather jacket.
The side of his mouth twitches, and those gray eyes warm. “What?” I ask, brushing my hair back. I really should find a hairdresser in town. I have this whole overflowing beach style thing going on. Most of the time, I wear it in a bun. This is probably the first time he’s actually gotten to see me as me. Fuck, I cringe, my face is still make-up free.
His eyes travel across my face, probably landing on the freckles covering my nose.
He smiles. “Glad you’re not covering them up.”
My hands fly to my face. “I hate my freckles. I look like a goth version of Pippy Longstocking.”
“I love them, and I happen to like Pippy,” he tells me, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red, and he clears his throat. “I mean, they suit you, with your copper hair and all.”
I groan, grabbing my mascara, touching myself up in the mirror before pulling on my boots.
“Irish roots apparently take a couple of generations to sprout. The rest of my family all have dark brown hair, and I was stuck with the red,” I say, meeting his eyes again in the reflection of the mirror. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says, turning his head away, but not before I catch him smiling.
My MacBook pings, probably with an email from one of the girls who’s helping me to create some velvet flared pants. “Just one minute,” I say, opening my email.
He nods, taking a seat in the empty chair. I put on my glasses, and he chuckles. “What?” I ask, pushing my glasses up on my nose, writing a reply about the new design.
“It’s like I haven’t seen you,” he drawls, getting comfortable.
“Not falling flat on my ass,” I snort, looking up from the screen and brushing my hair back.
“That too. But I mean—” He motions to my clothes.
“Comes with the job,” I smile.
“Your job? You sell clothes, right?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested.
“I sell vintage clothes I pick up at yard sales, estate sales, fairs, and little shops around the Bay Area. Just started my own small clothing line,” I tell him, picking up my wallet and phone before shutting down my laptop.
“It’s rad that you own your own company. I didn’t picture you as a Country fan, though,” he says, pointing to the shirt I’m wearing under my new leather jacket.
I grin. “Believe me, I’m not, but I do like that one song of his.”
“Stranglehold?” he asks, opening the door for me.
“Yeah, you know it?” I ask while we walk to his truck.
He nods. “I used to listen to it a lot last season.”
The cold wind blows my hair out of my face. “Last season?” I ask, while he holds his truck door open for me to climb in.
He gets in the driver’s seat, backing out of the parking lot and heading into town, not saying anything more while music fills the truck.
“So what about last season?” I ask after a while.
He swallows hard. “It was my go-to song to get me pumped for the day.” His focus stays on the road ahead.
“Okay, mystery man.” That gets an eye roll from him while he turns up the volume of a Pearl Jam song. We settle into a comfortable silence as he taps his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of a Johnny Cash song while I stare at the changing scenery.
