“Check the thrift store on Maple for bud vases,” Mom says. “They usually have some good glassware.”
“Perfect. I’ll head there right now.” Clutching the notepad to my chest, I rush from the kitchen, escaping Linney’s scrutiny.
REBA REFUSES TO START.And this time, no amount of pep talking can convince the engine to turn over.
“Need a little help?” Nate appears beside my open window. He crosses his forearms and peers into the car.
“As much as I appreciate the offer, I really do like this shirt.” I’vechanged out of my old lake tee into a simple linen tank, but it’s theperfectsimple linen tank. I got it years ago when my best friends and I went on a tour through Europe, and it’s irreplaceable. “I’m not sure my wardrobe can withstand any more Nate Lancolm help.”
“Clothes,” he says, uncrossing his arms. He grips the door and leans back, stretching his whole body. “I’ve always felt they were overrated.”
My breath catches, and his knuckles tighten against the metal of the car. I remember the last time I had almost no clothing on around Nate, and how good it felt to have those fingers tighten around the backs of my thighs as he held me in the water.
I’m the first to break eye contact. Clearing my throat, I look away from Nate’s hands and focus very hard on the pleather of the steering wheel. “I’ll ask my dad to take a look at it.”
“Your dad and Cooper went into town for some boat thing.” Nate releases his grip and takes a step back from the window. “Hop out. I’m headed to the lumberyard. I’ll give you a lift to wherever you’re going.”
“Okay, thanks. I’m just going to the thrift store in town. It’s on the way.”
Inside Nate’s truck, the cab smells of sawdust and the pineapple air freshener hanging from his rearview mirror.
On the passenger seat is a pile of what looks to be mostly receipts and old invoices. “Sorry, can I move this trash?”
“Those are important work documents,” he says. “Be careful. I have a system.”
“Right.” I place Nate’s “important work documents” on the floorboard and buckle my seatbelt.
“So,” he says as he puts the key into the ignition and the truck rumbles to life. “What’s the latest on the wedding planning? You ladies looked very serious through the kitchen window.”
“It’s fine,” I say glumly. “Though I don’t know why I’m even helping when this wedding is the last thing I want to happen.”
“I thought you were gonna Reverse–Parent Trap that shit,” he says with a smirk.
I roll my eyes. “I’m working on it, Chessy.”
“Chessy?”
“From the movie,” I clarify. “The housekeeper.”
“No, I know,” Nate says. “But don’t I at least get to be Martin?”
This gets a laugh from me, as I picture Nate as the dorky British butler. “You can be whoever you want, if you can figure out how to stop this wedding.”
“I’m already ahead of you. I’m installing a trap door in the gazebo,” he says, pulling out of the driveway. “Just as a fail-safe.”
I belt out another laugh. “You can never have too many backup plans.”
Nate’s eyes remain on the road, but I see him quirk a grin, that crooked incisor making an appearance. His forearm is on the wheel, his fingertips just brushing the dashboard, and I imagine them brushing along my skin. Heat shivers through me. I make a point not to look at Nate and instead focus on looking straight out the front window.
The drive to the thrift store takes us through the center of town. The litter from the parade has been swept up, but the lampposts are still swagged in red, white, and blue.
“We’re going dress shopping on Tuesday,” I tell Nate. “Mom got Cara an appointment at the same shop where I used to get my pageant dresses. Lots of sparkles and ruffles and high slits. She’s going to hate it.”
“Cara likes dresses though,” Nate says. “She’s fashion-y.”
“This shop isnotfashion-y in a Cara way. Trust me.”
“I trust you completely,” he says.
