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With a car like this, you’d think he’d be in a snazzy suit. Instead, it looks like he took a dive into a clearance bin of random clothes. The gray track pants have a white stripe down the sides, and the tan button-up shirt is tucked in, with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Instead of sneakers to match his pants, he’s got worn black leather combat boots on.
His style screams sporty, hipster pirate. Which I didn’t realize is a thing.
I suppose a guy with his looks can get away with wearing just about anything.
He’s still staring, and I start to feel the weight of his scrutiny.
Before I got sick, I was confident in my appearance. Though I’m fairly average-looking, I loved doing my makeup and trying different things with my long hair.
I just don’t have the energy for it these days. I forgot my lip gloss at home. Any foundation I put on my face earlier has sweated off. My cheeks might have a rosy glow, but it’s from the fever.
Self-consciously, I toy with one of my braids, which, thanks to my mom’s handiwork, is strategically hiding the bald spot over my right ear. My hair is thick, and it’s a blessing to have so much of it because it’s been falling out in chunks lately.
Another lovely side effect of my sickness.
Thankfully, my sunglasses hide the bags under my eyes. It doesn’t seem to matter how much sleep I get, I’m always tired, and the fatigue shows on my face.
“I’m looking for Bobby Wildwood,” the man finally states, his accented voice giving away the fact that he’s not from around here. Not even close.
“That’s my father.”
“Your… father?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a Bobby Junior?”
“Nope. Only child right here.”
“Interesting,” he mutters, sounding bothered.
Walking forward, he gets cloaked in the shade from the canopy above us as he gets closer to me.
A pleasant scent reaches my nose in the breeze. It’s not a cologne I recognize, but it’s crisp, clean, and alluring. Inhaling it makes my heartrate increase.
Picking up one of the glass bottles of syrup, the guy smiles a little. “Wildwood Maple Farm. I knew I was in the right location.”
“Yeah, you almost made it. It’s actually just down the road.” I hitch a thumb to my right.
Glancing behind him, the man scans the wrought-iron fence surrounding the property. “That’s strange. I could’ve sworn the entrance was here.”
“It used to be.” I pause and quickly do the math in my head, becoming confused when I realize how long ago it was that a lane to the old house was located right across from me. Now it’s overgrown with shrubs and blocked by a tall fence. “Gosh, that was decades ago. Like way before you were born. How do you know that?”
“I’m Ellister.” He changes the subject. “And you are?”
“Hannah. How do you know my dad?”
“We have business dealings.”
“What kind of dealings?”
“These things are harder to operate than I thought.” Evading yet another question, he gestures to the car idling on the road.
“Don’t take offense to this, but did you just learn to drive?”
Hesitating, with a perplexed lift of his dark eyebrow, he looks back at the vehicle. “I think I have a faulty navigator—the lady that speaks to me from the box.”
“You mean your GPS?”
