“Who’s this, Beau?”
When I turn around, I find Trevor leaning against the partition separating the dressing rooms from the store. Trevor’s smile is wide, his hands tucked into his pockets. I feel myself get hot all over again just at the sight of him.
“This is my boyfriend, Trevor.”
Trevor practically glows. “Hi, ma’am.”
Mrs. Carmichael rolls her eyes. “Not another one of you. The ma’am stuff makes me feel so old.” She shushes me when I go to interrupt her. “I know, I know. Hard to break a habit.” She does air quotes with a roll of her eyes and says, “My mama raised a southern gentleman.”
“Well,” Trevor says, with a conspiratorial smirk, “my mama didn’t raise a gentleman at all. Tell me what to call you.”
And Mrs. Carmichael has the gall to look flustered as she clumsily hands me the garment bag containing my suit. Almost slipping through my grasp, I catch it just in time. She gives me a rough shove into the dressing room. I enter with a shake of my head. It takes me a bit of time, but I get the suit on. Andy wanted us all in light gray suits with pale pink shirts. I can’t deny my sister anything in this life, despite feeling decidedly funny in the get-up. Suits are not remotely my thing.
Trevor and Mrs. Carmichael’s hushed whispers filter into the dressing room as I put the finishing touch of tying the tie Mrs. Carmichael presented to me with the suit.
“Well?” I ask as I exit the dressing room, running a nervous hand over my head.
All whispering ceases.
“Oh, you look so handsome, Beau.” Mrs. Carmichael’s eyes water a bit at the sight of me, so I look at Trevor instead. But he’s almost as bad. His blue eyes are narrowed in on my shoulders, dipping down to my chest, then slowly flickering back up to my face.
“Handsome, indeed,” Trevor says gruffly.
“Lucky you, dear.”
Mrs. Carmichael manhandles me until I face the mirror, running her hands down the fabric to smooth any wrinkles in the suit. Once she’s satisfied with it, she pulls away with a curt nod,and winks at me in the mirror. After I change back and pay, we leave the suit shop with Mrs. Carmichael promising to catch up with Trevor at the wedding.
I hang the suit up in the little sliver of space between the seat and the window in the cab of the truck. Leaning one arm atop the truck roof, I aim a smile at Trevor.
“Wanna see more of downtown? Or do you want to see the real Clay Springs.”
Trevor’s eyes turn mischievous. “Show me your Clay Springs.”
“You got it.” I tap the roof just once, then climb back into the truck.
We make our way back out of town, through the suburbs of Clay Springs, and back out to the rural country that I have always preferred. Sun breaking through the trees casts shadows along the old pavement road. I know these roads by heart. Like the lines on the palms of my work-roughened hands.
Country music crackles from the radio as we make the slow drive along my favorite back roads. A few times Trevor hums along like he knows the songs, but I don’t think he does. His soft hums comfort me in the small space of the truck’s cab. Out of the corner of my eye I watch enraptured as he takes his hair down from the messy bun, so the breeze gently blows through it. The wind tangles and knots it, but that seems to only make Trevor’s smile widen.
The road turns from old, cracked concrete to compacted clay dirt. Trevor aims a confused look my way, but I just smile reassuringly at him.
My family’s farm looms in the distance, until finally we pass by. The large sign announcing Clay Road Farms is teal with oranges, sunflowers, and blueberries in the logo. It’s been the sign as long as I can remember, a little weathered, faded with age. But it’s still the beacon that reminds me I’m close to home.
“That’s my family’s farm. Andy’s wedding on Saturday will be hosted there.”
“It’s huge,” Trevor comments softly. His gaze follows the farm until the truck is too far past it for him to keep looking. “How many acres do you own?”
“Well, the farm has about three hundred acres here in Clay Springs. It’s been in the family for about five generations now. We export some of the citrus and other fruit, but most of our earnings now come from weddings to seasonal and weekend events.”
“I can’t wait to see it.” Trevor shoots me a soft smile, lighting me up inside. He’s got a great smile. A plush top lip, slightly bigger than the bottom, and his teeth are perfectly straight, unnaturally so. But everything about Trevor is beautiful, even sweet.
I restlessly tap my fingers against the wheel during the final fifteen minutes of the drive to our location. The truck comes to a slow stop in front of an old chain-link fence with a padlock. I jump out, unlock the fence, then drive us through, only hopping back out to lock it behind us.
“You bring me here to kill me?” Trevor teases.
“Nah, too many people have seen you in town now.”
Trevor laughs, warm and deep, with his head tossed back. His voice is sweet and deep, just a bare hint of an accent that I can’t recognize. Almost as if he’s worked really hard to erase it. I pull up at the edge of the river and park by the bushes. Heat bugs rattle my senses as I open the truck door wide. They’re too loud in the summer, overwhelming and piercing like a train passing right by me.
