Except for traffic.
“What is going on?” I ask as I hit the brakes to avoid taking out a wooden barricade that appears out of nowhere. “The road is blocked.”
Though it’s immediately obvious what is happening.
There is some kind of festival going on in downtown Wanted.
As I idle at the corner of Rye Road and Whiskey Way—they take the Bourbon thingveryseriously here—I see tents and booths and dozens of people milling around. A banner over Whiskey Way, strung from Dinky’s Diner to the gazebo, declares SPRING FLING FESTIVAL. There is a large array of clip art on either side of the banner flanking the words, from whiskey glasses filled with bourbon on the rocks to spring flowers, soft pretzels, and cotton candy.
If the banner brought that much party to the square, I am looking forward to parking the truck and exploring the festival for myself. I’m a sucker for fried foods and face paint and I can already smell a range of spices and melted butter.
Barrel has stood up, and he’s straining against his harness.
“No, sir,” I tell him, hitting the button to close my window so he can’t fully investigate the scent of deliciousness wafting through the air. If I love fried foods, Barrel would like to marrythem. He’s never met a deep fried anything he hasn’t wanted to inhale like a vacuum.
I completely missed the fact that there is a festival going on this particular weekend. Not only is Barrel now whining and tugging hard against his harness, my brand new apartment is on the other side of that roadblock. I bite my lip. It’s very on brand for me that I didn’t know this was happening.
I’m used to just rolling with it. Except this truck is rolling nowhere right now.
“Now what, buddy?” I ask, putting the truck into park and reaching over to release Barrel from the harness. I don’t like how he’s choking himself on it as he pulls hard.
I’m going to need to either turn around or back up because there is no going forward.
To that point, there is an older man in front of the truck on the other side of the road barrier waving at me. He looks friendly enough but he’s clearly gesturing for me to turn around. I smile and wave back, nodding.
My phone has decided all on its own to just play Lizzo on repeat so if he’s saying anything I can’t hear it.
Putting the truck in reverse I ease off of the brake.
Without warning there is a thumping on the back of the truck.
“Ah!” I scream, slamming on the brakes again immediately.
My fur mom instinct has my arm flying out to brace Barrel so he doesn’t go crashing into the dashboard.
He’s safe, thank goodness, but I regret unlatching him. He seems to agree because I swear the look he gives me is filled with reproach.
“Are you okay, buddy?” He looks fine but my heart is racing. “Did I hit something?” I wince. “Please tell me I didn’t hit anything.”
Barrel barks.
Throwing the truck back into park I grimace as I look in the rearview mirror, prepared to see blood and mayhem.
Instead, I see a man standing there, fully upright, uninjured, and ridiculously good looking. He’s wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a flannel shirt like nobody’s business, along with a frown on that gorgeous face. He’s over six feet tall, with dark tousled hair and a strong chin. His arms are up in the universal what-the-hell-are-you-doing gesture.
He follows that up with another whomp on the back of the truck, like he’s slapping a horse’s rump to get it to giddyup.
Suddenly every sexual innuendo involving cowgirls and rodeo riding leaps into my head as I murmur under my breath “yeehaw.”
Someone in another vehicle honks and I jump, ripped out of my sudden and unexpected fantasy of saving a horse by riding a cowboy.
I’m not sure why everyone is upset with me. The road is blocked and no one can go forward so I’m not stopping traffic. I fail to see the issue, honestly, and now that I know I haven’t accidentally killed someone, I relax.
Until the man suddenly appears beside my door.
I jump again, though I have no idea why.
It makes me giggle.
