Page 29 of Wrecked

It’s crazy, and it’s beautiful.

When the balloons are gone, we sit in the sun and dry off. Water is passed around, jokes are told, and laughter is contagious.

Rick hits Toby’s leg and says, “Come on, let’s go put up that siding.”

Toby nods with a smile, and the two take off for the last few hours of the workday. With our shoes back on, everyone goes back to their stations, not bothered by their wet clothes since the heat is still stifling.

I walk around the field, pick up the broken water balloon pieces, and put them in a trash bag. When I’m done, I start my walk back to the worksite but not before a silhouette catches my eye.

A man under the shade of a far-off tree is staring at me with onyx eyes.

I stop and look back at him, waiting for something—a movement, a wave, a smile, anything. Instead, I get nothing.

chapter SEVEN

“Night, Leah,” Rick says as he slings his cooler strap over his shoulder.

“Safe drive home,” I say, sitting on the tailgate of Adam’s truck, my legs dangling.

Everyone has packed up and left. Well, almost everyone. Adam is sulking around here somewhere. I haven’t spoken to him since he nearly threw the folding table at me at lunch.

Okay, he didn’t throw it at me, but he probably wanted to.

I take a sip from my water and put the cap back on. My pants are covered in dried mud, and I have Spackle smears on my forearms. There aren’t any mirrors around, but I’m pretty sure I look like a wreck. Running my fingers through my ponytail, I feel the matted ends. If the girls saw me, their jaws would drop for sure. I’m probably super smelly and gross, too. I lift an arm to take a whiff.

“There’s no way you smell as bad as you look,” Adam says as he approaches the truck, forcing me to jolt in my seat and plop my arm down.

“You should see yourself,” I say as a rebuttal. My words insinuate he looks like hell, but it’s quite the opposite.

Those low-hanging Levi’s with their stains and small tears are hugging his hips just right. His T-shirt is clinging to his chest, accentuating those strong shoulders at the top. His hair is messy but not like mine. He has this hot-guy-who’s-been-building-things-all-day look about him, and it’s—

Okay, gonna stop that thought right there.

Adam snaps his fingers in front of my face, pulling me out of my daydream and off the truck. He closes the tailgate and walks to the driver’s side. I go to my door and climb inside.

He starts the car, and we set off for the drive. After a hard day’s work, the air-conditioning feels like heaven. I run my fingers over the leather of my seat and let my head fall to the side. Looking out the window, I play a game with myself, making up the strangest names out of the license plates that we pass. The first plate is LZZ D498. Lizzy Fornicate pops in my head.

“Lazied Fortnight,” I say to myself, somewhat impressed.

“Slave Juice.”

I turn my head. “What?”

He nods toward the car in front of us. The plate is S7V J32C.

“Slang Jerk?” I try.

He shakes his head. “Mine’s better. There’s a V in there.” He dips into the middle lane and speeds up to see the plate of another car—NST YC4D.

“Nasty Seafood,” we say at the same time, laughing quietly to ourselves.

As we realize we’re not supposed to be having fun with each other in any way, we settle back into our respected positions—him stern and straight with his hands on ten and two, and me huddled in the corner of the seat as close to the door as possible.

I run my teeth along my bottom lip and go back to looking out the window.

“You still play that game a lot?” he asks.

I nod my head. “Not really. It just popped in my head.”