I hum under my breath, some tune Bobby’s been picking at on his guitar that’s already gotten in my head, trying to decide if I should back out of this conversation. Hell, James does stupid shit, so why not me too?
“Shay’s country, through and through. She’s always been like that, a tomboy more into dirt and animals than anything stereotypically girly. Katelyn is basically the opposite, all feminine and frilly. And you . . . you fall somewhere in the middle.”
I pause and she interjects. “I have no idea where you’re going with this, but I can’t wait to find out.” She’s nearly vibrating in anticipation of my spilling my guts, something I literally never do.
This is such a bad idea, but I force the words out anyway. “You do this.” I gesture to her muddy clothes, bedhead hair that was braided and forgotten hours ago, and bare face. “And then, you get all dolled up too, in fancy outfits and makeup and stuff. How do you flip-flop and still feel like yourself? Doesn’t it feel fake?”
Her hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Wow, there’s a lot to unpack there, but thanks for the armchair psychoanalysis and observation.” She fidgets with her braid now that I’ve drawn attention to it.
“Never mind, sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” I try to backpedal, hating that I made her uncomfortable because that wasn’t my intention.
But she’s thinking, formulating an answer. “No, it’s okay. I know what you mean . . . kinda . . . or I think I do. They’re both me, the gritty vet version and the fancier stuff too. Just different sides, if that makes sense? I grew up in the city, didn’t fall in love with this kind of life until college. My brother thought I was nuts when I said I wanted to be a livestock vet. He’d never seen me without a manicure, much less with dirt under my nails. But it just fit, you know? I’m still that girl, but just this one too.” She tosses her braid over her shoulder dismissively. “Everyone’s got different facets like that. I mean, Shay has been known to dress up in actual heels and a dress before, and Katelyn dresses down in sweats and stuff. But I don’t know if that’s exactly what you mean, is it?”
She’s picking at the edge of the tape holding me together, or at least holding my lips closed. I huff out in annoyance, but it’s a front. I started this and I’m gonna finish it. “I met a woman—”
She squeals and kicks her feet in the floorboard, making the truck slow down suddenly. Luckily, when I look behind us, Vincent hasn’t so much as shifted in his sleep in the hay. Sophie points at me, her finger dangerously close to my nose. “I knew it. Is this about the woman Katelyn saw you with at the bar? I knew there was more to that than you were saying.”
“There was. I met her earlier that day, at the mechanic shop,” I admit slowly. Sophie’s brows jump hopefully as she realizes where we’re heading now, but I shut that down with a glower. “At the garage, she was different—like one of the guys.” I leave out that I wanted to fuck her against the nearest flat surface, something I’ve never felt about any guy I’ve ever known. “But an hour later, she’s prancing around and girling out and flirting.”
Sophie dances in her seat, her butt wiggling around like a happy goat. “I like it! Sounds like someone’s in-ter-est-ed!” She ends on a singing, drawled-out note.
I shake my head, examining my dirty hands and remembering Lil Bit’s clean ones. “Nah, not like that. It was just confusing, you know? I’m a no-filter, what-you-see-is-what-you-get guy. I was trying to make sense of it, for science.”
“For science?” Sophie snorts. “Let’s start here, Mr. Psychoanalyst . . . you are the furthest thing from a was-ee-wig guy and you know it. Hell, you play it up when the mood suits you.” She looks over, waving her hand over me like I did to her. “This says redneck cowboy. Rough, tough, stoic, and quiet. You have literally growled at strangers at the grocery store, and people are scared of you because you have a reputation as a brooding asshole.”
“Thanks.”
She backhands my shoulder. They weren’t compliments. “On the flip side, you’re trying to figure this woman out. You’re aware, watchful, and observant like Brutal is. And not that you’d let anyone know it, but you’re smart as a whip. What was the last book you read, Brody?”
Shit. She’s right. That’s not exactly something I go around advertising. It’s not that I want people to think I’m stupid, but it’s not my job to avail them of their own preconceived stereotypes about ranchers. “Midnight in Chernobyl. It’s about the nuclear disaster there.”
Her brows knit together even as her eyes widen. “What the . . . see? Nobody’s going to think some ranch riding cowboy like you is devouring stuff like that as light bedtime reading with a Jack Daniels nightcap. You’re this hard exterior, but there’s more to you, Brody. So much more.”
We’re both silent for a moment, her words floating through the cab of the truck. I’m wishing I hadn’t started this conversation. I meant to figure out Lil Bit, not have Sophie figuring out all my pieces and parts. But I guess in a way, she did help me figure out something about Lil Bit, about how she can go from one extreme to another.
“So you going to ask her out when we get to the garage? When do we meet her? She’ll have to pass the family test, and it’s damn near impossible to get our approval.” I wish I could say she was lying, but we are a persnickety and prickly bunch.
Though I could probably roll in with just about anyone and they’d throw a parade in celebration. I don’t exactly go around advertising my one-night stands, so they are under the mistaken impression that I’m lonely.
“Nah, it ain’t like that. Just for science, like I said.” I smirk, knowing Sophie’s well aware that I’m full of shit. I’m not exactly interested in Lil Bit, or at least not anymore, but I am still a bit confused how one version of her could have me rock hard and thirsty and the other could leave me so cold and uninterested.
Sophie hums, not convinced in the least. “Science? Yeah, biology and chemistry. Bow-chicka-bow-wow.” She wiggles in her seat again.
I return the shoulder backhand, though decidedly gentler than her smack.
Chapter 4
Erica
“Rix, whatcha want me to do with the Toyota?” Reed yells across the garage even though the music is barely loud enough to hear. “It’s all done and ready to roll.”
I don’t move from my perch beneath the truck I’m working on. Sighing, I bite out sarcastically, “Gee, I don’t know, Reed. If it’s all done, why don’t we just scoot it over to the side and use it as a place to take mid-afternoon naps?”
“Okay then . . . guess I’ll go call the owner?” Reed is still asking, like there’s any other reasonable option.
I hum agreement, never stopping work. But that’s nothing new. I’m always working. Twenty-four seven, three-hundred and sixty-five since the day I turned fourteen and Dad let me start working with him in the garage.
Back then, I played tool bitch, fetching this and that only to return it to its proper place when Dad was done. And I watched, and I learned, and I fell in love . . . hard. With engines. Tinkering and tweaking and making them purr.