He trailed behind me down the stairs, his boots echoing on the wooden planks.
Richard was at the front desk and waved at us as we left. Brooks opened the passenger door of the truck and held out a hand to help me up into the cab.
“Did I tell you that you look cute this morning?”he said.
A blush flooded my cheeks. “No.”
“I like the suspenders.”
“Yeah? You don’t think they’re too . . . grandpa-core?”
“What’s grandpa-core?”
“You know—bulky wool sweaters, high-waisted pants; falling asleep with a plate of fried chicken on your lap.”
He let out a deep laugh. “I think you have the perfect amount of grandpa-core.”
“Good.”
“This is the part where you compliment me.”
“It is?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. You look cute, Brooks.”
And he did. Cowboy hat. Boots. Shoulders so wide they blotted out the sky.
He shook his head in exasperation and closed the door before going around to the driver’s side.
“Your compliment needs work, Freckles,” he said, easily climbing into the truck.
“What do you mean? I told you that you look cute too.”
“Men don’t want to be cute. We want to be brawny and strong.”
“You are brawny, and you are strong, and I have no doubt you can crack a walnut with your bare hands. Happy?” I shot him a grin.
“Ecstatic,” he said dryly.
“You mind if I roll down the windows?” I asked. “Get some fresh air?”
“Have at it.”
The late summer air was warm, and I closed my eyes, savoring the scent of North Idaho earthy soil and sun-ripe trees. It was hard to be worried about the future when the present was so bright.
“Music preference?” Brooks asked, jarring me from my reverie.
I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Whatever you want is fine.”
“You pick.”
“I don’t think the local stations have what I like.”
“Showtunes?” he guessed.
I sniggered. “No.”
