I make a strangled noise in my throat that comes out somewhere between the neigh of a horse and the squeak of a mouse.
“Birdie?” The nickname is like whipped cream on top of chocolate ice cream on chocolate cake with a freaking cherry on top.
And Mama is starving. “Pretty punctual and present.”
His chuckle pulls me out of the weird montage rolling through my head, and reality slams me back into the moment with a thundering heart rate and sweaty palms. “If I ask my mom for a book recommendation, she will hand me something philosophical from Woodstock.”
“Fantasy,” I whisper.
“Do you have a book?”
“The Name of the Wind.”
“The wind has a name?”
“Book, on my nightstand,” I mutter, feeling foolish. Heat spreads across my cheeks and chest.
“Tell me about it.” Tossing the pile of laundry, he pops up onto the tailgate of the truck.
Following suit, I wiggle up, but I’m not nearly as graceful, and this moment took me by storm, rushing toward me with the speed of a tornado on a warpath.
“There’s magic, a bar, and a mysterious trunk. Music lyrics.” I try to remember all the amazing aspects of that book, and how the author wove the story as though he sang the words.
“You love to read, don’t you?” He nods to himself. “All right, I’ll try it, but I’m not sold on the tea.”
“Well, what do you like to drink?” I bump his shoulder with mine.
Bad idea!
Abort touching. Abort touching. He’s so close to me, I can smell him and feel his warmth and the texture of his shirt. Nervous energy buzzes in my veins like an electrical wire.
“I’m a simple man, Birdie.” Leaning his head back, he breathes in the crisp New Hampshire air. “But if it’s in the evening, I’ll take a whiskey on the rocks.”
“Suits you.” I swallow, turning away from the way his throat bobs as he speaks. This is steaming up far quicker than I expected. “Tell me something about you. Something real.”
He side-eyes me as he drops his head. Those plush pink lips get sucked in before they display the cutest little pout. “I was born and raised here. Took my very first steps in the cemetery.”
“That is morbid and yet unique.” It’s also so extraordinary that I’ll always remember that random fact about him.
“My mom is a special woman. Her great-great-something or other built the house, the original chapel, and even started the cemetery.” He hooks a finger toward a copse of trees, where I can just make out the outline of a building. “It’s run-down now. I can take you to see it if you’d like.”
“I’d love that,” I reply hurriedly.
For a moment, he sits there in stunned silence, staring at me like there’s lettuce stuck in my teeth. Which there may be. I ordered lunch from the diner, so the green leafy stuff might wink at him as it ferments in my teeth.
Wait, does my breath smell? He’s still staring at me as though I’ve grown five heads. I don’t recall waking up as a hydra, but anything is possible. Is it my pits?
Trying to be casual, I aim my nose at my armpit and give it a good whiff. Nope, the deodorant I put on this morning holds strong.
Now, how do I casually smell my breath? I try to do that breathing into my mouth thing while parting my lips as I inhale,but I’m pretty sure I just look like a monkey seeing a bug and hooting my pleasure. No good will come of this.
None.
Arlo cracks a smile and presses a hand to the back of his mouth as he tries not to outright laugh at me. “Did you just sniff your armpit?”
Busted. I can’t backtrack now. Only one thing left to do—own it. “A lady has to check her level of stank from time to time.”
That’s it. He lets out a full guffaw, and I swear he even snorts a little. The sound not only cuts through the tension, but eases me back into that familiar comfy feeling, even as I shiver from the cold.
