Hey, at least he’s a gentleman.
He rounds the truck, hops behind the wheel, then flashes me a small smile while he fastens his seatbelt.
“Okay, are we ready to go?” Jameson asks as he turns the key.
“Yep, all set,” I say a little too enthusiastically.
Jameson’s truck roars to life as he reaches for the radio. Pop-country floods the truck’s cab with twangy, beer-soaked nostalgia. I grip my purse a little tighter.
Strike two: auditory assault.
I listen to a lot of different genres—opera, punk, classical, metal—but pop-country? It’s like nails on a chalkboard made of denim and fragile masculinity. Like books, I think everyone should enjoy whatever speaks to them.
But I’m also allowed to have opinions.
And mine is that I’d rather jam knitting needles in my eardrums than listen to another goddamn love song about dirt roads and tailgates.
I stare out the window and sigh, wondering if I could survive a dramatic tuck-and-roll escape.
During the drive, Jameson glances my way several times. The lack of conversation is maddening, so when I notice a mildly funny travel mug in his cup holder that says “Freak in the Sheets” with an Excel logo on it, my introverted self tries to generate some small talk.
I already know this won’t go well.
“So, you’re an expert in Excel?” I ask, pointing to the mug. “I love funny mugs. I’ve never seen this one before.”
“Um, well, I was, I guess. Kind of an artifact from a past life. My bosses at my old job gave it to me as a gift when they promoted me,” Jameson explains, keeping his eyes glued to the road.
He doesn’t provide any further information, so I settle back in my seat with a small sigh, wishing I were at home with my dog and my books.
Jameson clears his throat, his eyes flicking toward me as he silently opens and closes his mouth, obviously eager to say something.
“Uh, you look beautiful tonight, Aurora. That color really suits you,” he says with a laugh and a huff. Jameson purses his lips and draws his brows together.
Oh! He’s nervous too.
“Do you go on a lot of dates?” I ask.
I need to know what I’m dealing with because maybe we could have fun tonight if we both admit this is awkward as hell.
“Uh, no. I don’t. I’m pretty terrible at this, aren’t I?” he asks with an adorable chuckle.
“If you’re bad at it, then I’m a total failure,” I say, smiling and feeling a little relieved.
Once we admit we both suck at dating, our evening becomes much more relaxed and enjoyable. He takes me to a funky restaurant a few towns over where I indulge in the most amazing mushroom ravioli—yes, like Isabella Marie Fucking Swan—and down a few glasses of riesling to make peace with that fact.
The restaurant is small, dimly lit, and covered in artwork for sale by local artists. The tables are all different heights and sizes, and each chair is a different shape and color. Paper lanterns and bright twinkle lights hang from the ceiling. The place feels either comforting or suffocating. I can’t decide.
But the food is incredible … and somehow, despite the rocky start, the company isn’t half bad either.
We share stories about our childhood, our time in college, and our outdoor adventures. And as much fun as I’m having, I have to admit that there is no inferno, no bonfire, not even a spark when I look at Jameson.
Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for him. He grazes my leg and arm any chance he gets, but maybe he’s just a touchy guy.
Eve’s like that, so I’ll just roll with it for now. If I don’t respond, hopefully he’ll get the hint that I don’t feel the same way.
I rest my head in my hands while Jameson tells me about his old job in the city. Something about accounting? I don’t know. I’m trying to concentrate, but all I can think about is my unfinished novel sitting on my coffee table at home.
I’m being really rude.
