I don’t know what to say to that. My first reaction is to laugh, because he must be teasing or baiting me. But when he doesn’t follow his question with an explanation, I get angry. “How can you say that to me?”
He shrugs. “It would have taken more effort not to say it.”
“We work together. I’m your boss. I’ve told you that’s inappropriate.”
“Like the thoughts I get when I look at you.” His gaze lands right on my face, and he smirks. He actually smirks. Like it’s no big deal what he just said. I can’t believe him.
“You’re terrible.”
“Why?” His smirk is replaced by a full grin now.
“I’ll say it again. We. Work. Together.”
Bash’s smile widens. “That’s it?”
“And because it’s unnecessary. I don’t need to know what you think of me.”
“What if I need to know what you think of me?”
“I’ll tell you. But you won’t like it.”
He laughs loudly.
The car takes a narrow road that leads to the outskirts of Meadow Hills. We wind past a row of weathered picket fences, old barns with faded red paint, and maple trees that explode in a riot of gold and scarlet on either side of the road. Hay bales sit on a front porch we pass, decorated with pumpkins and a scarecrow wearing a flannel shirt. A group of kids on bikes zoom by in matching knit beanies. I roll my window down just in time to hear their laughter trailing behind them like ribbons.
I squint at Bash. “Is this the part where you murder me and toss my body into the woods?”
“Oh, Romilly…how I wish I could have kept you around longer.”
I flick his shoulder. “No, but really. Where are we going? The only thing past here is Sunset Ranch.”
He turns to me with an annoyed expression. “You just had to ruin all the fun, didn’t you?”
“We’re going to the farm?”
“Yes. You guessed it, you fun-killer.”
I laugh. “You see, this is what I mean about being dressed for the occasion. I’m just glad I chose boots instead of flats.”
Bash parks in the dirt lot outside the entrance to the farm. Then he turns to me and looks me over. He tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear. It makes my stomach whirl with butterflies. So does the way he’s looking at me.
“You’re perfect, as always.” The words are a low murmur, different from the teasing tone he used when he said I give him inappropriate thoughts.
Part of me wonders if—like so many others—all he sees when he looks at me is my appearance. I know I’ve been hard at work with shutting his flirtations down, so I can’t blame him if that’s the case. Still, it disappoints me that it might be true.
But then I remember what he told me while driving me home last night.
You’re so kind, and intelligent, and lovely.
I can’t help it. I blush.
Bash gets out of the car and comes around to open my door for me. It should make me want to roll my eyes, but instead, I feel slightly giddy.
Especially when he takes my hand to help me out and then doesn’t let go.
He gives me a challenging grin, like he’s waiting for me to say something, or pull my hand out of his, but I don’t. I tell myself I’m holding his hand to challenge him right back and make him think he can’t get to me.
But the truth is that I like this way too much. Holding his hand makes my heart thump unevenly, and the pit of my stomach dance.
