“You know, taking me to your andmy brother’sworkplace isn’t exactly discreet.”
“We’re not gonna be around anyone.”
She quiets at this, watching as I turn off the main road leading into the ranch, down one that spirals up into the mountains.
It doesn’t take long for us to reach our destination—a clearing surrounded by thick wood, and in the center of it, a campfire, fit with nearby logs as seats. It’s a place I’ve spent evenings with other cowboys on the ranch, drinking beer, chatting, hanging out. It’s also a place I’ve brought other women—although I’m not about to mention that to Delilah. It’s far enough away from the main section of the ranch that no one will come upon us. And it’s early enough in the season to not be a regular spot for all the other ranch hands.
“Is that a campfire?” Delilah asks as I park the truck on the grass.
“Yep.” I hop out, grabbing some blankets and a case of beer from the truck bed. I make my way over to the firepit, adding a few logs from a nearby pile, pulling some matches from my pocket, and getting to work starting the fire. By the time I’m successful and step back, Delilah has spread out a blanket on the grass, choosing to lean back against the log bench rather than sit on it.
The glow from the fire makes her smile warmer as she stares up at me. “Good job, cowboy,” she says.
I snort, taking a seat beside her, offering her a beer.
She takes it silently, cracking it open and taking a sip. The fire builds, crackling steadily.
“What you said earlier about your project going well,” I say. “That true?”
She shrugs, her jacket rustling softly against mine. “I mean, I’ve made progress on the non-sexual parts of the story. Which is still progress …”
“That’s good,” I say.
There’s a pause. Then Delilah asks, “Work going well?”
It’s my turn to shrug. “Sure. Same old stuff.”
It’s funny, how odd this feels. This is typically as deep as our normal conversations go. Our whole lives, we’ve orbited around Harrison, and therefore small talk is the only real kind of talk we have.
But now … it feels different. Small talk is too small.
We settle into a strained silence for a few moments.
“So …” Delilah eventually starts. “Why’d you bring me out here?”
I’m quiet for a long moment. Then, “I get the feeling you’re someone who spends a lot of time in their head. I thought being out here might help with that.”
It takes me a few seconds to realize that Delilah is looking at me, and when our eyes meet, she smiles softly. “That’s perceptive of you, Graham.”
“You seem surprised.”
“I never took you as the perceptive type.”
“People can surprise you,” I offer.
She nods. “I suppose they can.”
“Like who knew I was such a nice guy, willing to help out a friend’s little sister in her greatest time of need?”
Delilah smacks me in the chest with a laugh, and I chuckle.
“And who knew your affection for the color purple is borderline obsessive?”
At this, she gasps. “Excuse me?”
I smirk. “Your apartment is very purple,” I point out.
“It’s a good color,” she defends.
