“Told you so.”
“Eat maggots and die, Mr. Mayor.” Reviving an old argument was just what they needed
He grinned.. “She’s in perfect shape. You could still trade for a color that doesn’t show the dirt.”
“Or I could keep her because she cleans up so nice. Doesn’t she look gorgeous?”
“She’s a sight for sore eyes. You should take her for a spin around the square so everyone can admire that glistening paint job.”
“And since I’ll be driving, you can hang out the window and wave at all your constituents.” Yeah, this was more like it. Razing each other had been a fun game. It still was.
“I will, too. I’ll look good waving from a blue truck as clean as this one.”
“I’m sure you’ll be a real crowd-pleaser, but I should warn you I’m ready to tuck into a sandwich at the Raccoon. You’ll only get one pass.” She opened the driver’s door. “Get the lead out, Bridger.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He lengthened his stride as he walked around to the passenger side.
This was exactly how they’d behaved BNYE—Before New Year’s Eve. Could she keep it up?
Maybe not. His broad-shouldered self occupied a lot of physical and emotional space in Bluebell’s passenger seat. Her peripheral vision lovingly tracked his movements as he drew the seatbelt over his muscular chest and clicked the buckle into place.
He also smelled delicious. His smooth jaw confirmed that he’d shaved recently, probably after barn chores. She used to help him with those sometimes because she was friends with all the horses.
“I thought you were in a hurry.”
“I am.” Jabbing the key in the ignition, she started Bluebell’s engine. Hers was already running.
“You sure played it cool in there with Angie and her crew.”
“Thanks.” Tightening her grip on the wheel to steady herself, she eased around his massive F-350.
“Was it an act?”
“You tell me.” She pulled out on the road. The sooner they got to the Raccoon the better.
“I thought maybe you’d found the off switch, but now?—”
“It’s because you’re so damned close.”
“Want me to ride in the back?”
“Because that wouldn’t be weird.”
“We could pretend you were my chauffeur.”
“I’m pretending you’re Ronny what’s-his-name, that obnoxious little kid in sixth grade.”
“How’s that working for you?”
“Not great. He smelled bad. Your aftershave is wrecking the?—”
“Don’t go pointing fingers. Your perfume isn’t helping me out, either. You smell like roses.”
“Sorry.” She dragged in a breath. “I researched rebound relationships.”
“Of course you did.”
“The relationship gurus agree with you. They’re a bad idea for both parties.”
