Page 4 of Some Like 'Em Burly
“Lie there a little while longer.” Gwendoline blinks up at me from my workbench, hot-cheeked and shy, and I tell myself sternly not to get used to it. I’ll drive her home in a few hours, and then I’ll barely see her again. As it should be. “You took a real tumble back there. Warm up while I brew us some tea.”
Gwen
Of all the daydreams I’ve cooked up about the blacksmith, riding in his flatbed truck through the valley late at night was not one of them. But the joke’s on me, because the stars are glimmering overhead in newly cleared skies, and the bumpy dirt road keeps jostling me against his hard shoulder, and every word spoken between us in the dark sounds like a confession.
“Your father won’t be happy with me.” Rhys states it as a fact, frowning straight ahead with a grim expression as the truck engine rumbles beneath us. And what’s that supposed to mean? All the blacksmith has done is look out for me; he’s saved me from my own foolishness, and now he’s bringing me home safe and sound.
“He should thank you.” I swallow, throat tight. “Ishould thank you. I had no business poking around your forge, and now I’ve caused you nothing but trouble.”
Rhys is silent. I stare at him in the shadows, watching the muscle flex in his bearded jaw. His gray eyes are light against his olive skin, glued to the road ahead, and heavy lines crease the corners of his eyes.
I mean, is he reallysomuch older than me? Less than twice my age, definitely. Is that truly so messed up?
“Thank you, Rhys Evans,” I press.
“Don’t.” His big hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles pale beneath their constant layer of soot. “Don’t thank me, Gwendoline. I have no honor when it comes to you.”
Now ifthatwere true, I wouldn’t be the most restless girl in the valley, but here I am dying of happiness every time the truck throws me against the blacksmith’s arm. He’s so big and burly, a tower of rocks in the driver’s seat, and every brush of contact makes my heart pound like crazy.
No honor?
Then why am I losing my mind over these tiny, innocent touches?
“I’ll tell Dad what happened. I’ll explain everything. He knows what I’m like, believe me, and he’ll know that I’m the root cause of all this. He’ll probably want to pay you damages. He’ll call into the local radio thanking you.” I keep up a stream of bright chatter as we bounce along the dirt road, climbing higher and higher into the valley, and I should shut up really, but the blacksmith’s mouth is twitching at my antics, so I keep going. “He’ll pin a medal on you. He’ll beg you to keep me.”
That wry smile falls away. “No, he won’t.”
“ThenI’llbeg you to keep me.”
“Gwendoline.” My name cracks through the quiet, low and angry, and I fall silent. I pushed things too far. I always, always do this.
Joking with the man is one thing, but flirting like that? What is wrong with me?
“Sorry,” I whisper. God, I hate that I do this. I hate that I make him uncomfortable.
Rhys Evans shifts in his seat, but he says nothing. The truck engine growls louder and we lurch faster up the valley path, ghostly sheep watching us from nearby dark fields, and for once I wish this encounter was over already. Usually, I treasure every second near the gruff blacksmith, but tonight…
I’ve finally had enough.
Ithurtswanting a man who barely knows you’re alive. And I’m used to being a bother, used to everyone thinking I’m a pest, but whenhethinks it, it’s like my rib cage cracks open.
I’m bruised worse than my fall. Raw and bleeding.
“Gwendoline—”
“It’s Gwen.” I knot my fingers in my lap, burying them in the dark folds of my skirt. Out above the hillside, a cratered moon glows waxy and bright. “People only call me Gwendoline when they’re angry at me.”
I wait for it, wait for Rhys Evans to use my full name again, to make a point that I’ve pissed him off now too. But he doesn’t. He just sits beside me, scowling in the glow of the truck dashboard.
“You can drop me off here,” I offer as we make the final turn toward the farm. “It’s not too much farther to walk.”
“No.” The blacksmith sighs. “I’ll bring you home. Time to face the music.”
What? What is he talking about? I chew on my bottom lip as the truck swings onto my family farm, tires juddering over clumps of grass and half buried stones.
My father can’t possibly complain.
Despite my dearest wishes, Rhys Evans has done nothing wrong.
