All the muscles in my neck tensed, shoulders inching up toward my ears automatically.
“So nice to finally meet you.”
Toby brushed past, the sleeve of his coat a mere whisper against my arm, but the wicked side-eye he served was clear proof he’d heard what I said.
Can’t argue with the truth.
Well, you could. But that just made you an asshole.
Toby the Terrible was a lot of things, but an asshole wasn’t one of them.
“Tobias Thomas,” the mayor replied, holding out his hand. “Please, call me Paul. It’s a pleasure to meet you, son. I’ve been wanting to thank you in person for all the support you’ve given Brett as he goes through veterinary school.”
“It’s been a pleasure,” Toby said.
“I had no idea you were coming home for a visit.” Paul went on.
“It was a last-minute decision,” he said, the line sounding like something he’d been repeating all day.
“He worked at the clinic today. He’s got really great bedside manner,” Brett said, gazing at Toby with what looked a hell of a lot like a crush the size of Santa’s gift sack in his eyes.
“What the hell would you know about Toby’s bedside manner?” I barked.
Startled, everyone glanced at me. Toby cleared his throat.
“Well, I watched him with patients all day,” Brett pointed out as if it were obvious. The only thing obvious here was that, like Mother Nature, he liked to flirt. Except he was terrible at it.
“Bedside manner refers to interactions with patients,” Toby told me quickly.
I knew that. I did. I might spend most of my time with trees, but I wasn’t stupid. Hearing Brett talk about Toby and the word bed in the same sentence seemed to turn me dumb, though.
“We should go before it’s dark,” I said, holding up the shotgun.
“Should we take Tobias’s car?” Paul asked. “Don’t think we’ll all fit in your truck.”
I scoffed. “That thing? It would never make it across the farm.”
“It’s an Outback,” Toby argued. “It’s made for outdoors.”
“Not with those tires,” I chided.
Toby gazed around, eyes landing on my truck. “You still drive that bucket of bolts? I’m surprised the tailgate hasn’t rusted through and fallen off in a field.”
“Even without a tailgate, it would drive better than that tuna can on wheels.”
Toby’s mouth dropped open. “It’s an SUV!”
I made a rude sound. “For city folk.”
Toby’s hands balled into fists as he faced me. “At least it was made in this decade!”
“New ain’t always better.”
“Should we take two cars?” Paul inquired.
“We’ll make it work,” I announced and gestured for everyone to get to my truck.
It was a square-bodied Ford F250 pickup and ran better than most cars produced in the past two decades. It was my grandfather’s and had been passed to my father and then on to me. It was a good truck, and I saw no reason to replace it. The old gal had seen more of this farm than I had anyway. For all I knew, her wisdom kept the whole place running.
