Page 21 of Shifting Sands

“We’re heading out now,” Erin says. “I’m taking Brandee’s truck home. Jena and I will be in bed and fast asleep by the time you two arrive. Don’t be alarmed if the television in our room is on and the volume is up really loud. I like it that way, and”—she gestures between herself and Jena—“we’re very heavy sleepers.”

Jena nods.

“Seriously, we sleep like the dead. Nothing wakes us up,” she adds.

I smile and nod at them.

Then Erin leans in closer. “Just be careful and make sure to get our friend home safe and sound. Be a gentleman—unless she doesn’t want you to be,” she whispers, then winks before linking arms with Jena and walking out the door.

I glance over at Brandee, who’s still perched on the stool, and walk down to her. “Do you need anything else?” I ask as I take her empty martini glass.

“Just the ride,” she replies.

“Give me twenty more minutes, and I should be ready to go. Are you sure you don’t want another drink?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I’d like a bottle of water, and you can close my tab,” she adds, placing her credit card on the bar in front of me.

I reach into the cooler and place the water in front of her. “Here you go, and I never started your tab.”

Her brow creases in confusion. “Why not?”

I shrug. “Must have slipped my mind.”

She frowns slightly. “Brew, I can pay for our drinks. I don’t want you to get in trouble with your boss,” she says.

The way she expresses her concern touches me deeply.

“Don’t worry,” I reply as I slide her card back to her. “You can get me next time.”

Brew

Ilead her out into the parking lot and to my truck.

“Here we are,” I say as I take the keys from my pocket.

“Whoa, this is an old truck,” she says as she runs a hand over the hood. “I like it.”

I raise a brow. “You do?”

“Yes. It’s fantastic.”

The last word I expected a woman to use to describe this old beater isfantastic. It’s definitely a classic, and I’ve intended to restore it for years, but I never seem to find the time when I’m home, and now that I have the Corvette to tinker with this winter, it’ll be at least another year before I get around to it. So, it sits in the garage at my house, and I take it out and drive it every time I’m in town, just to keep the engine running.

“It belonged to my grandfather, who gave it to me when I turned sixteen. That was over twenty-three years ago, and it was already twenty-two years old then. It’s not in the best shape; I’ve been meaning to find the time to fix it up,” I say as I walk to the passenger door and open it for her.

“It’s an old farm truck. I think it looks good. Besides, it’s all about the big engines in these things, not the paint job. How does a man keep a truck running for so long anyway?”

“That’s easy. He keeps it covered and doesn’t drive it like a race car,” I say as I shut the door after she gets in.

Then I walk around to the driver’s side and let myself in. I put the key into the ignition, pump the gas pedal a few times before turning it, and the old engine roars to life.

“I love that sound,” I say, looking in the rearview mirror and pulling out of the parking lot.

“Yeah, me too,” she agrees.

As we turn onto the highway, heading toward the bridge to the island, she says, “So, I’m guessing you’re, what, thirty-nine? Forty?”

I glance at her. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

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