87 days.
THIRTY-TWO
“You really didn’t haveto be my chauffeur on your day off.” I look over at Miles, who’s focused on the road.
“I don’t mind. I don’t have any plans, plus, you said you had a headache last night.”
“I also said I just hadn’t had enough water and was totally fine this morning.”
The car creeps forward, traffic crawling on Route 68.
“I’m stopping by the shop after I drop you off,” Miles says. “See if there’s any hope of saving her.”
“Good luck,” I huff, staring out the window. “I’ve been arguing with the insurance company for two weeks, and they’re dead set on totaling the Bronco.”
I catch the tick in his jaw. “I know. I’m sorry. But maybe?—”
“You can’t pay to have it fixed.” It’s the same thing I said when he initially offered. “It’s fine. It was old anyway.”
“But you love it.”
Yeah. I do.
It was my first and only big purchase just for me. Saved up for two years to buy it outright. No loan. No co-signer. Just me and that beat-up piece of junk. But it wasmypiece of junk, and we had plans together. I was going to fix her up, restoreherbeyondher former glory. Like those fancy restorations that constantly pop up on my social media feed. Bright blue, or green—I was leaning toward orange. Make sure everyone saw me coming.
I smile at the thought.
“I know what they said, but I want to check for myself,” he adds.
I nod, throat tight. I won’t get my hopes up.
He reaches across and takes my hand, and I squeeze his back.
Twenty minutes later, Miles pulls into the long driveway, following the road past Boone’s abandoned house, and stops in front of the barn-slash-studio. A shiny blacked-out SUV I haven’t seen before takes up the dirt lot where I usually park.
A man—no, not a man. Cash Freakin’ Walker—leans against the driver’s side, one foot kicked back against the tire. He looks a few years younger than me. Wearing expensive jeans, an equally expensive-looking caramel suede jacket, and aviator sunglasses, even though it’s overcast, phone pressed to his ear. He looks like he walked off a Country Living magazine cover, but has a bit of rebel-without-a-cause to him, too.
“Is that him?” Miles asks.
“Yep.” I unbuckle my seatbelt, reach for the door handle, but then turn back. “Thank you for driving me.”
“Of course. I’ll pick you up around five?”
I nod, then he leans across the console and kisses me with a hand at the nape of my neck, holding me against him. It’s hard and thorough with a promise of more later.
“Good luck,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to mine. “You’re going to be amazing.”
“Thank you.”For the ride. For checking on my car. For believing in me.
For being him.
I flinch when my door is opened, and cold air rushes in. Cash Walker rests an elbow on the door, plants his other hand on the roof, and dips down to peer into the car.
Okay, I was not expecting that.
Up close, Cash is even more intimidating. I don’t think he’s got a pore on his face. And his eyes are a vibrant blue, the kind of color I wished for when I was younger, not yet appreciating my dark brown.
“You must be Summer.” He flashes a Crest-commercial smile, floppy blond hair falling over his forehead.
