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I don’t look at Garrett, pleading with my eyes at my dad.Please don’t let me down. Please be the parent tonight.
“You’re an adult, Win. You don’t need my permission to go.”
I’m irritated at his casual response. Like I’m the one being overcautious in asking.
“I’m not asking permission, Dad.”
He grunts and returns his gaze to the television screen. “I’m not going anywhere. Garrett and I have a box of microwave popcorn and aLonesome Dovemarathon ahead of us.”
I wince at Garrett theatrically. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay,” she tells me in a very grown-up voice before stage-whispering, “We all have to make sacrifices.” She adds, “You know, there’s a way you can make it up to me…”
I pretend to look annoyed when the truth is I’m anything but. “Fine, you can help me get ready.”
Twenty-SixWINNIE
That’s it. Case Michaels is trying to murder me. He shows up at five minutes to eight with a fistful of wildflowers and wearing cowboy boots. Not manure-covered working boots. Not broken-in bull-riding boots. No. He struts in wearing shined-up cowboy boots under his dark-wash jeans and a fitted gray T-shirt that hugs his biceps and makes my heart skip directly into palpitations. He holds out the bouquet as if it’s an offering, and I blink at him, completely frozen. My every molecule has seized inoh shit!levels of uncertainty.
His countenance is sheepish. “Um. I brought these for you.”
I still can’t move. My vision is hyper-focused on the way his tanned forearms seem to wink at me. Despite losing sensation in my limbs and apparently my brain, I can feel that sexy flicker of smooth muscle definition deep inside my soul.
“Winnie!” my sister sings. “Hello! Case brought you flowers!” Under her breath, she mutters, “I think she’s glitching.”
I want nothing more than to melt into a puddle on the floor,but he’s still in front of me, waiting for my response like he’s not sure if he’s made a huge mistake and, God, I’m so embarrassing. “Sorry. Uh. I think I blacked out there for a sec.” I clear my throat. Twice. “You brought me flowers?”
“Is that okay?” he says. “Blink once for yes. If you blink twice, I brought them for Garrett, and we can forget the last five minutes ever happened.”
A snicker bubbles out of my throat. I take a deep breath and meet his glittering eyes. “And she’s back,” he drawls.
I reach for the stems. “Merci.I don’t… I’m not sure I even have a vase!”
“We do!” Garrett shouts, producing a dusty one from under the sink. Her expression is straight gooey as she takes in Case and his chivalry.
Taking a minute to calm down, I busy myself with washing the vase and carefully trimming the stems on an angle. Then I set to arranging them perfectly and placing the entire effort in the center of our kitchen table. It’s so large and our table is so small, it takes up most of the surface area, but I don’t care. Later tonight, when I’m recovered from my abject humiliation, I’ll bring the entire thing to Garrett’s and my room, where I can gaze at it uninterrupted.
“They’re beautiful, Case. I’m speechless. Obviously.” I laugh, still nervous. He looks pleased and maybe a little relieved as he meets my eyes. We’re suddenly locked in a staring contest spanning across my kitchen, and I would break first except: 1) I don’t want to, and 2) I can’t.
“Should we go?” he asks after a beat, his eyes still on mine.
“Hmm?”
He smirks. “To the party, Sutton? I’m under strict ordersfrom the former national high school barrel-racing champion I’m supposed to, quote, ‘get the new celebrity rider to her party and show her off.’”
My eyes widen. “Me?”
A snort comes in the direction of the couch, where my dad is sitting watching some white cowboy negotiate terms between equally white and definitely offensively portrayed Native Americans on the TV.
“G’night, Winnie. Have fun,” he says, not bothering to shift his attention.
Case holds out a hand. “Pret?”
With this boy, I think I can be ready for anything. I put my hand in his. “Absolument.”
We get in his car, and he puts on some Tim McGraw. I glance out the window at my own reflection in the setting sun as he reverses out of my driveway.
This is him trying, right? That’s why this feels different. Not that he’s tryingtoohard. Just maybe a little nicer? A little more planned? I smooth my hands down my jeans. Is this adate?
