Page 42 of Townshipped
He doesn’t look my way. His face remains neutral, but there’s a twitch in his jaw, maybe a clenching. I’m used to the warm and welcome way Aiden has been toward me since I arrived. This is an entirely different side of him.
He lifts the hand that isn’t swiping his debit card through the reader and rubs the back of his neck.
“Sure does,” the cashier says. “Everyone’s talking ’bout you bringing her here.”
She nods her head in my direction like I’m not standing right in front of her, or as if I can’t hear or speak for myself.
“Her name’s Em,” Aiden says. That’s all. He doesn’t explain how I came to be in Bordeaux. And he doesn’t introduce me. I suppress the urge to put a comforting hand on his forearm or shoulder. Even though I’m the subject being discussed, Aiden seems rattled, and I want to be the one to soothe him.
The cashier continues, unabashed. “I’d figured you’d go for Ella Mae or Meg seeing as they’re both single. But then, I guess neither of them would make much of a farm wife, now, would they?”
“I don’t think they would.”
I don’t even know who Meg is, but I met Ella Mae and I bristle at the thought of her visiting Aiden’s farm, let alone being his farm wife.
The cashier laughs. “I mean, can you picture Ella Mae mucking goats in one of her getups?”
Aiden shakes his head and barely glances at me out of the corner of his eye. He introduced me to about twenty people as we meandered through the store, muttering to himself between introductions about how a man can’t just come and get feed.
For some reason he’s keeping things between himself and the cashier without inviting me into the conversation, so I stand back and follow his lead.
“Well, Sherry, it’s been nice chatting,” Aiden says, even though his face tells another story.
He pockets his wallet, moves so he can maneuver the cart, and pushes it out the door. I say goodbye to the cashier and dart after him.
Just before the sliders close behind us, Aiden says, “Come on wifey,” in a voice I’m pretty sure carries across the parking lot.
I look over at him, unable to hide my shock and then a laugh busts out of me.
“Wifey?” I ask him as we open the tailgate and load the bags of feed and supplies into the truck bed.
He shakes his head and laughs with me.
“I hope I didn’t make things worse with that last comment.”
I place my palm on his shoulder and look him in the eye. “They’re obviously already talking. Let ’em talk.”
Our eyes linger on one another for a beat. I drop my hand. I’m picturing our kiss. Is he?
“Really?”
“Why not? Seems like they’ll talk anyway.”
“They most certainly will.”
Aiden lets out a weary gust of breath. Then he looks over at me. A relaxed smile spreads across his face.
“You’re pretty amazing.”
“You’re not bad yourself,” I tell him.
My mind regularly struggles to fill in the blanks, but in this moment, Aiden feels like all I need.
We get into our respective sides of the truck and Aiden starts up the engine. He’s about to back up when a car pulls in next to us—an older car that’s been restored to mint condition. The original candy apple red has white racing stripes running from the center of the hood to the tail. Twin air scoops distinguish the hood from other cars. The tightly sloped back renders the rear seat a more suitable size for children than adults.
In an almost inaudible voice, I mutter, “1968 Shelby GT Five Hundred.”
Aiden’s eyes go wide as he looks at me. “You know that car?”
