“You’re shitting me.”
I’m not.
It’s what he gets for leaving me in the dark and, truthfully, why not? Marsh Hogs has a nice ring to it.
Stepping closer, Micah tosses his phone in the front seat of his truck and waits for me to respond. He doesn’t rush anything, just waits for what I’m ready to give him.
“I thought it was cute,” I deadpan.
Micah’s expression lifts. “Cute? Do you think a bunch of seven to nine-year-old boys wanna have a mascot that’s cute?”
“I dunno. I’ve never been one.”
“Thank fuck,” he mutters, averting his gaze a little and alluding that he doesn’t know how to carry this conversation, leaving it up to me to put him out of his misery.
“Can we talk?”
He pushes his bottom lip out with his tongue and bobs his head. “Sure.”
“In your truck.”
His attention locks back on to me so fast that if he didn’t have too far to go already, he would’ve snapped his head off. “Where?”
“In the backseat.”
“You’re shitting me again.”
“I’m not.”
“How about the front?”
“You just threw your bag there.”
“I can move it.”
“If you want.”
He stares at me for another few seconds before he mumbles something under his breath that sounds like “Son of a bitch.”
The backseat door on the driver’s side pops open, and I waste no time climbing inside like I did the first night we met.
A night that will live in infamy of being one of the best nights of my life.
Micah climbs in behind me, but he keeps the door open.
Fair.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he says. “I didn’t mean?—”
“Your sister was just being protective,” I reply, revealing the fact that I know who she really is. “And she’s a genius.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“We’ll keep it between us then.”
“You did your homework.”
“I did.”
