Page 72 of Always Meant for You
It’s only a drive.
But nothing about this feels simple.
I follow the rhythmic strikes of her heels across the gravel. She moves like she owns the ground beneath her. Each step echoes, pulling at the edge of my focus.
She’s still in the same outfit I picked her up in: black top, white skirt, floppy hat, and pink heels. The skirt catches my eye. It moves with her, swishing with each step and accentuating everything it covers.
Everything.
I can’t help but notice. Part of me wants to take in every curve. But I won’t. I was raised with more discipline than that. Still, it takes effort to look away.
I try to focus on her shoes. Shoes should be safe to look at. But her shoes are damn sexy. They accentuate her calves, her thighs, her?—
Mabel looks back at me, gasps, and then picks up speed. At the truck, she spins around, pulls off her hat, and swats me with it.
“What was that for?” I hold up my hands.
“You were staring at my butt.”
I blink. “I wasn’t. I really wasn’t.”
She scoffs. “I don’t have a butt worth staring at? Is that what you’re saying? Is there something wrong with it?”
She turns to check, glancing over her shoulder, and now I’m watching her look at her own ass, which somehow makes it impossible not to look myself.
God help me.
I step back, trying to get my bearings.
“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” she presses.
I don’t even know where to start.
“There’s nothing wrong with your ass. I was drawn to your shoes. They were clicking. It’s a nice sound. Rhythmic. I like your beat.”
What is coming out of my mouth?
Mabel loses a little steam and doesn’t look like she wants to whack me with her hat again.
“You like my shoes?”
I shrug. “Well . . . yeah.”
“And you weren’t checking me out?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “My brain feels ready to explode, Mabel. Can you step back so I can open the door, or do you want to hit me with your hat one more time?”
She looks at the hat, then back at me. “I shouldn’t have done that. And you don’t have to get my door. I told you at the diner,” she adds, placing her hat back on her head.
I exhale a heavy breath, grounding myself. “And I told you that I open doors. That’s who I am. Didn’t your city boyfriends do this for you?”
I don’t mean to say it. But it’s out before I can stop it.
She watches me. “I don’t have anyone waiting for me in New York. I never had a boyfriend in New York.”
That shouldn’t matter. But it does.
Relief washes over me.
