Page 30 of The Wedding Run
I rub at the lopsided heart drawn on the passenger window. “What about you, Luke? Do you play the field, so to speak? You know, over in Alabama or Tennessee. I noticed Jazz said she fixed you a special tea. Are you seeing her?” I glance in his direction and offer a flirty smile. “Or are you still aflutter over MaryBeth Hollingsworth?”
“MaryBeth left school and married her high school sweetheart. Last I heard, she had five kids. But she still has all of her teeth.”
I laugh again.
He steps closer, and my laughter fades. He scrapes at the shoe-polished heart with his thumbnail. I find myself staring at the seam of his jacket where his muscles bunch and flex. His nearness makes my skin tingle. Then his gaze captures mine. I feel a fluttering in my abdomen.
“So, you are seeing Jazz?” I ask, my voice too high and eager to know.
“Nah, we’re old friends. She made me tea to show me it would be a nice addition to my shop. Gotta have something to offer the non-coffee drinkers.” Then he leans close, so close I can smell his cologne, which has a woodsy scent. “We need soap.”
“What?”
“We’re going to need soap to get this off. Just add more quarters and punch the button.”
I move toward the tailgate, dig into my pocket for coins, but find none. “All out. Can you grab some from the dash?”
He places the sprayer in its holder. Rounding the cab to the driver’s side, he leans inside for more change. When he shuts the cab door, he returns to my side of the truck, pops in the quarters, and pushes the button. When he reaches for the sprayer, which is now safely in my hands, he looks in my direction.
His blue eyes widen in surprise. I smile.
We need cooling off, I decide as I warn, “Watch out!”
And I start spraying.
CHAPTER 13
Luke
Dexter, the owner of Whistle While You Wash, popped out of the office to see what was happening with all the screaming, laughter, and hullabaloo. Perhaps, just perhaps, he received a slight spray of water. A pure accident. And, of course, an apology quickly followed.
Needless to say, we didn’t stick around. Nor were we asked to.
We stumble through the back door of my folks’ house, dripping wet and still laughing.
Mom barely glances up as she kneads bread dough. The aroma of yeast fills the kitchen. “What have you two been up to?”
I haul in Libby’s oversized and hefty suitcase. “My truck is now clean.”
“Sort of,” Libby adds with a snort, and we snicker like schoolchildren, bumping shoulders.
Mom looks up then and studies us. “Looks like my floor is going to need mopping from all the water you’re dripping.”
“Sorry,” Libby says, her smile fading.
“At least I won’t keep getting congratulatory phone calls and questions about why folks weren’t invited to my son’s wedding.” Mom returns to kneading.
I lean over Mom’s shoulder. “What time is dinner?”
She elbows me in the gut. “The regular time.” Folding the dough, she tucks in the edges and places it in a greased bread pan. “Are you closing up the shop?”
“Yes, ma’am. First, we have a meeting with Andrea. Libby is helping with the wedding.”
“I heard,” Mom says, laying a cloth over the bread pan. “That’s nice of you.”
“We thought we should change first,” I add, looking at Libby’s wet hair.
“Good idea. Nothing happens in this town without it hitting the phone lines or social media.” Mom rinses off her hands in the sink and dries them. “Let me fetch you some clean towels.” Then she rolls a dish towel and pops it against my backside.
