I swear I see a combination of confusion and excitement on his face as he looks back at us before slipping round the street corner.
“So, what did you have in mind?” I push my hands into my back pockets.
“Well, for starters, I’m driving.”
My mouth gapes. “Um, no, you’re not. Betsy and I have a rhythm.”
“I promise not to muck that up. Just, it’s not fair you do every mile. You are here to work, you need to be able to focus when we get there.”
“And you don’t? You’re literally getting on a death trap. I think if either one of us needs the mental focus, it’s you.”
My hands are on my hips.
“Fine, we’ll take turns.” He climbs into the driver’s seat, shoving it all the way back before tossing his hat onto the bunk behind.
Poor Betsy.
I slide into the passenger seat as Mom and Brad appear on the front porch, waving.
“Did you need to say goodbye?” Hadley waves at them with a wide smile.
“No, it’s fine.”
“Okay.” He shifts the van into gear, and we rattle from the parking lot. I organize the snacks I’ve already purchased, and he glances at me with an amused expression.
“What?” I say.
He nods at the bag of snacks, hands gripping the wheel. “Feed me.”
I can’t help the laugh bursting from my lips. He lifts his aviators into his hair, a lopsided grin showcasing his perfect teeth. “Come on.”
Good lord, this is going to be a long trip. And I have a feeling I’m going to love every single second of it.
Two hours later, we stop for a rest break and to swap drivers. I push from the van and stretch my legs, literally. Betsy idles for a beat as we let her cool down.
Hadley pushes his hat onto his head, sending my stomach into some kind of frenzy. “You want anything from inside?”
I glance at the tiny gas station store. “Maybe just a bottle of water.”
“Be right back.”
He wanders away, disappearing through the front door of the gas station with a chime of tiny bells.
I walk around the front of Betsy and turn her off. Leaning against the driver’s seat, I sink to the side step and check my phone. I barely have one bar, but new emails have reached my inbox.
Vehicles roll in as I scroll through the messages.
One from the lady at the PBR office.
A request for interviews with the bull riders, a different angle each event. A 500-word write-up on each to build interest in the team members and the community, to enhance support, no doubt.
Great idea, and I guess I am the resident traveling journalist for the PBR. There’s an attachment with names of riders I’m to interview each week. I’ll look at that later.
“Still slumming it with the retro wheels, Gallagher?”
I know the voice, and I don’t bother looking up from my phone. Don’t bother lifting my sunglasses from my face or responding at all.
Knox.
