Page 92 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“You would know all about kinks.”
His half smirk remains. “We both know that’s not the real truth.” His eyes lands behind me. “Is that my truck paint?”
I follow his gaze to the matching rockers. “Can’t confirm or deny.” My tone confirms.
He stalks off, grumbling.
He hasn’t even done anything yet, and I already want to throw something. I check the few things within my reach, but by the time I look at him again, he’s talking to his brothers.
Why is he leaning against the bus like that? Like he’s posing for a denim ad, arms crossed. Sunglasses on. That smug tilt of his head.
Yeah, I’m here.
Yeah, I cracked your bucket list.
Yeah, I’m camping with you.
Asshole.
He catches me staring and tosses up a salute like we were some kind of team.
Hard no.
I spin on my boot heel and march into the lodge and straight to my office.
Screw him.
If he wants to play the “I’m just tagging along” game, then fine, let’s make it miserable.
I flip on the light with purpose. Drawers fly open. Old papers scatter—receipts, ink-smudged notepads, and a postcard from Canada.
Then—bingo.
I yank out the old paper map, the one with coffee stains and creases from my high school glove box days.
Old Highway 21.
Winding past sleepy towns.
Thick pine woods.
Dodging the interstate like it’s the plague.
The scenic route.
The long haul.
The route he flat-out refused to take at the town hall.
Perfect.
I spread the map across my desk and start tracing the path with a pencil.
Let’s go to the rodeo, Hart.
But we’re doing it my way.
17: DO US A FAVOR HART, GET LAID
