Page 12 of Country Charm

“Uhm, no. I don’t think serial killers advertise that they chop people up for a hobby though.”

“Right, right. How long was your drive here?” She presses on, looking up at my face. The streetlights illuminate her facial features, and I wonder to myself if this girl has ever experienced bad lighting.

“About an hour and a half, maybe a little more.”

“Not terrible, but not the best,” she states.

“Do you own a car?” I feel like movies always portray city people taking taxis or buses.

“Yeah, why?” She tilts her head and holds it there, scrunching her brows a little.

Damn, she’s cute.

“I just didn’t know if you needed one in the city.” Her face softens at my response.

“I like having my own wheels, you never know whenyou want to get away.” Whimsy passes across her eyes, and I lock the information away.

We wait in line for a short amount of time considering how long it seemed. At the window, Cassidy orders for us both but pauses and looks at me, “Food allergies?” I shake my head and she presses on. She finishes ordering and goes to release my hand to, I imagine, pull out her wallet. I just tighten my grip and use my right hand to pull mine out. It’s just a money clip so the card slips out with the push of my thumb.

Cassidy pulls at my hand and a smile tugs at my lips. I look over at her and she has that brow raised again.

“Thank you, Hunter,” she says sweetly.

In what seems like minutes, our food is placed on the pick-up window in a large bag with two large Styrofoam cups next to it. It is at this point I realize I have to let go of Cassidy’s hand. I look down at it for a moment before releasing it and handing her one of the cups. I take the other and the bag.

I scan the few tables and chairs on the sidewalk for a second but notice Cassidy walking away from me. She heads down the sidewalk, but in a few strides, I catch up to her.

“Know a better spot to eat this grub?” I can see even in the low light of the night, she blushes.

“I do.”

We walk for not even a full two minutes before she stops. There are no benches, tables, or chairs around us, just buildings. Cassidy pulls out her wallet and holds it up to the door of the building right in front of us. The door beeps twice and she pulls on the handle. I stick my foot in the door and jerk my chin forward, motioning for her to go throughfirst.

She walks straight to the elevators; they aren’t the typical metal doors I imagine in buildings. They have these wood panels that interlock in a very particular pattern.Fancy.When she summons it, the blocks slide away, opening up. We walk in and she hits the four without thinking.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“My place,” she says, so matter of fact. She doesn’t waver in tone for a moment. I am so out of my element. Usually, I’m more forward and bring the girl home; maybe not every time, but definitely not the other way around.

“It’s a real nice buildin’.” I can feel my hands sweat a little.

“Thanks, I really like it.” She’s mulling something over in that beautiful head of hers. “I just thought it would be nice to lounge and eat, and if you need to grab a nap on my couch before your drive back, you could.”

“Thanks, Cassidy, that’s considerate.” Her neck turns a pinch pink at my compliment.

“No problem. You paid for my food, after all.”Stubborn.

“You paid for my drink.” The elevator dings and the doors slide open. A few steps down the hall, then she’s letting us in.

Her entire apartment is the size of my family’s casual sitting room.

Doesn’t she feel crowded in this small space?I can’t imagine living in a box surrounded by other people living in boxes.

Her walls are a soft, creamy white, but the walls barely show behind her copious amounts of bookshelves, none of which match. Each is filled with books. There’s no TV in sight. Her couch is an emerald-green color with a white knit throw tossed across it. It’s fancier than anything I would get,but it looks soft and comfortable. Kitty-corner to it is a large, old, leather armchair, deep and square.

Her kitchen consists of maybe six cabinets with a small counter and her stove. Her fridge looks older than Mrs. Hewitt. It’s vintage and makes a humming noise. Probably on its last leg. No microwave, either. No dining room table. No formal spot to sit and eat since the apartment itself has been eaten alive by books.

She has a stack of books topped with a lamp next to the couch, then the same on the other side but with a plant. The plant is alive, so in my book, that’s a bonus point. Although, it’s an ivy and they are pretty easy to maintain. There’s a coffee table in front of the couch and armchair, but there are books with marks in each of them piled on it. She goes to the table, sets down her cup, and starts moving things around, I’m assuming to make room for us.

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