Page 76 of Don't Go Faking My Heart
"Really? My grandpa owned a farm. Which one do you work for?"
"Sugar Maple Farms," I say.
"He's the VP of Distribution and Retail Operations," Ash says proudly, surprising me. I've never told her my title, and I'm pretty sure she thought my whole job was running a single fruit stand.
"Mr. Carville bought my grandpa's farm when he retired." To Philip, she says, "Sugar Maple Farms is the lifeblood of this whole region."
"Wow." Philip's smile is tight. I bet it's hitting him like a fist to the helmet that I'm a VP while he's only a senior director. "Ready to go?"
"Sure,” Heather says. “Nice meeting y'all."
Parker and Lou smirk at Philip's retreat. "That makes the score Rusty infinity, Philip zero," Parker says. "How's that feel, Ash?"
"Meh."
"Meh?" Lou asks. "How can you meh that?"
She shrugs. "It's hard to care about a chapter in a book I DNF'd."
I smile at her. She smiles at me. The wind whips up into a frenzy, and suddenly the rain starts pelting us.
Parker and Lou run toward the building for cover while they wait for Sonny.
"Stand with them and I'll come pick you up," I say over the wind.
She scoffs, grabs my hand, and we make a run for it.
I'm nervous the whole drive back to Sugar Maple. My audiobook automatically started when the bluetooth connected, so we listen to Red Rising, the first book in my favorite sci-fi series. Ash turns it up, a content smile on her face. She angles her body so she's almost facing me, with her legs curled up onto the seat. I don't risk more than a glance at her. Anything more and I'll never be able to look away.
Stupid road safety.
We drive through Sugar Maple into a residential neighborhood I doubt Ash has been in before. Maple Street and the river homes like Duke's and the Janes' rental are all on the northside of Sugar Maple. I live on the southeast end of town, a whole six minutes from Jane & Co.. My neighborhood is full of older three-story red brick homes with white columns out front and huge trees with swings hanging from sturdy branches. The street lights show bikes in lawns and on driveways.
It's a family neighborhood. The type I wished I'd grown up in.
At the end of the cul-de-sac, I turn into my driveway. The garage and porch lights show the flowers in my planter boxes: marigolds, begonias, and cornflowers.
For obvious reasons, the cornflowers are my favorite.
The rain that started in the parking lot has picked up even more intensely, and I don't have an umbrella in the truck.
"The garage is full of boxes and furniture. We're gonna have to run," I say apologetically.
"On three?" she says.
"On three."
We count and then rush from the truck. A million fat rain drops pelt us, but we make it to my front door, where the covered patio gives us at least some protection from the elements. I type in the four digit code to unlock my front door: the day I first met Ash. I don't know if she sees me enter it, or not. I doubt she'd make the connection, let alone remember. The date is etched in my heart, though.
Yapping greets us as we open and slam the door, and in a flash, a tiny dog so ugly, it's cute is running to us. We're dripping wet on my entry rug, the warm rain clashing with the cold A/C. Ash starts shivering.
"Pookie!" she says, crouching down.
"Prairie," I correct her.
But Pook—I mean Prairie runs to Ash, not me, so maybe she's on to something. She rolls over and shows Ash her belly, and Ash rubs it and speaks to her like she would a toddler. "Who's a good girl?"
I squat next to her and steal a rub, too. "She's a bad girl," I say. "She peed on the floor the second she saw you."
