He pursed his lips, his right eyebrow rising as he watched me with eyes that still felt sharp and hot, but now also assessing. “All right. How much do you want to bet?”
“Bet? You want to bet me that a toboggan is a hat?” Little did he know, I loved to bet. I loved games—chess in particular—but only ever when winning was a sure thing. Everyone but Lina knew a toboggan was a sled. Maybe he wanted to lose a bet with me?
His eyebrow hitched higher, and a faint shadow of challenge squared his jaw. “Yes, ma’am.”
A wonderful little thrill, a spike of something hot and promising ignited low in my stomach at how he’d said the word ma’am.
Still grinning, I crossed my arms beneath my chest, careful not to spill my water. “Fine. What are the terms?”
His cognac eyes brightened and moved over me as he rubbed the close-cropped beard on his jaw. “How about, if I’m right—if a toboggan is a knit hat—then you let me show you around Green Valley.”
“And if a toboggan isn’t a knit hat?” I lifted my chin, deciding not to mention that my flight tomorrow left first thing in the morning; if he wanted to show me around, it would have to be right now. Regardless, it didn’t matter, because a toboggan was a sled, not a hat.
He shrugged like it didn’t matter, apparently certain he was right, even as his gaze grew in twinkly intensity the longer it held mine. “Name your price.”
“If I’m right, then—” I paused, needing to swallow.
The side of his mouth hitched, such a flirty little curve, and my stomach erupted in butterflies. No lie, I hadn’t felt anything close to this since Bryce Littleton’s soccer ball landed on my lap freshman year of high school. He’d been a senior, experienced, and very, very hot. I’d been . . . none of those things. But the soccer star had winked at me and that simple action had detonated my first lust explosion, just like what I was feeling now.
Bryce Littleton had also turned out to be one hell of a good time. In truth, he’d been the only hell of a good time I’d ever had. No one else had come close.
Decided, I reached up and curled my fingers around the deputy’s tie, slowly tugging it and him toward me as I leaned forward and, hoping my bravado made me sound badass instead of ridiculous, whispered in his ear, “If I’m right, then you—”
Lina thrust her phone at my profile, announcing, “He’s right. A toboggan is a hat.”
I flinched back, turning to face her, but didn’t release his tie. “What?”
“I internet-ed it. It’s a sled and a hat. But the bet was that a toboggan isn’t a hat, so you lose.” She wiggled the phone, a smirk on her purple painted lips. “Guess you’re getting that VIP tour of Mayberry.”
Part II
“Between two evils, I always pick the one I haven’t tried before.”
Mae West
“I can’t believe you people call a hat a toboggan,” I muttered dumbly.
His lips curved, but then he quickly suppressed the smile, clearing his throat. “We’re here.”
“Here?” I peered out the windshield, having no idea where here was.
I’d been so confused that people in Tennessee called a hat a toboggan and hadn’t said much after Lina declared him the winner. She’d cheerfully—well, cheerfully for Lina—steered us out of the tent, informing him that I would be leaving first thing in the morning, so the tour would have to start now.
Nor had I said much on the short drive over to wherever we were. My bravado had failed me. In this guy’s quiet, steadily calm presence, I couldn’t think of anything to say. Other than asking me if I was cold and offering me his jacket, he hadn’t said anything either. I’d accepted the offer, and this might’ve been my fatal mistake because it smelled like him and made my insides warmer than my outside.
Cutting the engine of his truck, he exited the driver’s side. Meanwhile, I unclicked the seatbelt and sighed, telling myself to speak as little as possible. If I didn’t speak, I couldn’t insert my foot. I would be aloof and mysterious. Except he was being quiet and mysterious, and we couldn’t both be the aloof/quiet and mysterious one!
This was why I liked getting down to business without delay or discussion.
I couldn’t tell you what kind of truck he drove. A big white one, and at least forty years old by the looks of it. The interior was clean, but the seat was one long bench instead of two buckets.
Oddly enough—and this might’ve been another reason why I’d remained mostly silent during the drive—the truck reminded me of Bryce Littleton’s truck, the one in which I’d handed over my V-card. Is the universe trying to tell me to call Bryce Littleton?
I didn’t think so.
Last I’d heard, Bryce had taken over his father’s farm and married an office manager from Cleveland. That was four years ago, right after I’d moved to Los Angeles and started dating Harrison. And that would make him, what? Twenty-six now?
My hot deputy tour guide opened the passenger door just as I’d reached for the latch. That secretive little smile hovering behind his eyes and lips, he offered a hand to help me down, which, after a brief hesitation, I accepted.
Instantly, a shock of disorienting heat traveled up my arm, and I blurted, “How old are you?”
“Old enough,” he said easily, his eyes moving over me like my question amused him.
“Seriously. How old?” I found my footing on the sidewalk and withdrew my hand.
“Twenty-six.”
Twenty-six. Same age as Bryce.
“Did you play soccer in high school?” My chest felt tight.
He seemed to debate the question as he shut my door. “I did play soccer in high school, senior year. Why?”
“No reason.” I twisted my fingers.
This was weird, right? Mr. Police Officer and Bryce Littleton didn’t look anything alike, but the similarities were weird. Both from a small town, both drove an old truck with a big bench seat, both played soccer, both were three years older than me, and both were the only two guys who’d ever made me feel tongue-tied by saying nothing at all.
“Were you very popular? In high school?” I fell into step beside him as we strolled down the sidewalk, reprimanding myself for asking so many questions. How could I be perceived as aloof and mysterious if I kept talking?
He slipped his hands in his pants’ pockets. “Not really.”
So, that’s different.
I felt myself relax just a wee bit, enough to curtail the urge to question him about whether his family owned a farm. At this point, I finally took note of our surroundings and realized he’d taken me to a quaint and deserted downtown. “Where are we?”
“Your friend mentioned you only have tonight for a tour, and we left before dinner. I thought you might be hungry.”
“Well, that’s thoughtful of you, deputy,” I said, trying for flirty.
That secretive smile made another appearance. “I aim to please.”
“Do you?” I bumped his bicep with my shoulder, feeling emboldened—finally. “How long is this tour going to take?”
He seemed to study me before answering, “Not too long.”