“I hate when you say that.”
“I know that too.”
The pickup area smelled like exhaust, airport concrete, and cold Texas air. Not real cold, not northern cold, but sharp enough to make me tuck my hands into the sleeves of my sweater.
A black Suburban idled at the curb. My family did not send drivers in suits like Drew’s father.
My family sent men named Wade in cowboy hats.
The driver stepped out wearing pressed jeans, boots, a starched white shirt, and a black felt cowboy hat. He had a silver mustache and the kind of sun-lined face that looked like it had opinions about weather and brisket.
“Miss Calloway,” he said, tipping the hat. “Good to have you home.”
“Hi, Wade.”
His eyes moved to Drew.
Drew extended a hand without missing a beat. “Drew Travers Montgomery.”
“Wade Harlan.” Wade shook his hand, looked him up and down, and gave one approving nod. “You play ball?”
Drew grinned. “Little bit.”
I closed my eyes.
Wade chuckled. “Figured.”
Drew leaned toward me as Wade loaded the bags. “I like him.”
“You like anyone who looks at you like you could bench-press farm equipment.”
“Can I?”
“Sadly, probably.”
He winked.
The Suburban was warm inside and smelled faintly like leather, peppermint, and whatever cologne older Texas men used when they refused to admit they owned cologne.
Drew slid in beside me, taking up entirely too much space, his knee brushing mine. Wade pulled away from the curb, and the airport lights started falling behind us.
Dallas spread out beyond the windows in ribbons of highway, glass office towers, dark neighborhoods, Christmas lights wrapped around trees that were trying very hard to look festive without snow.
I pressed my fingers together in my lap.
Drew noticed.
Again.
Always.
“Baby,” he said softly, “you look beautiful.”
I swallowed.
“My mother cares less about beautiful than useful.”
“Then she’s got bad priorities.”
