Page 90 of Spicy Ever After
“Yeah,” I agree. “Besides, Beck and I both respect consent.”
You’d think my parents would appreciate this.
They do not.
Chapter Eleven
BECK
The moment I spot her dark gray Jeep Sahara on the farm access drive, I cut the tractor’s engine and give the horn three blasts.
“Early lunch!” I shout. Then I might actually throw myself from the cab.
“Do I get to meet her?” Javier shouts from the harvester.
“No!” I call over my shoulder, gunning for my truck I left parked on the farm track.
“What time are we starting back up?” he hollers after me.
It’s 12:40. We usually only take an hour for lunch, but Hattie is here, and I know an hour won’t be enough. I’m tempted to cut the guys loose, give us the rest of the afternoon. But I can’t afford it.
Especially now.
“2:30!” I yell back.
I think I hear him mutter an impressed damn before addressing his field hands in Spanish, but I don’t give them another thought once I fire up the truck’s engine. I drive too fast on our dirt roads. She’ll pull up to the house before I will, but I texted last night and asked her to wait in her Jeep.
I want to be there when she meets Pop.
I told her I didn’t want him to have to answer the door for her, and that’s partly true. He wouldn’t use his walker, and he might take a spill.
But he’s been in a worse mood than I have since Uncle Paul dropped his bomb, taking it out on me and anyone who crosses his path.
I won’t let that happen to Hattie.
Besides, we haven’t had a lot of time to talk the last two days, but I got the impression her Sunday was almost as rough as mine.
As the truck bounces over mud ruts and puddles, I spare myself a glance in the rearview. The rain we had Sunday has kept the dust down, but I’ve been on the tractor for hours, and I’m far from clean.
I drag a hand down my face and swat at my shirt and jeans, but it’s probably a lost cause.
When I pull up to the house, Hattie is sliding out of her Jeep in slouchy, faded overalls and an off-white T-shirt.
I swallow hard because it’s the most casual I’ve seen her, and thank God for it. She looks so soft and comfortable. Beautiful, yet not out of my reach. She’s still touchable—once I wash my hands.
She flashes me a smile as I throw my truck in park, and, damn, I want to say every stupid cliché ever spoken.
You’re a sight for sore eyes.
I thought I’d die waiting for you to get here.
I missed you.
I’m still brushing myself off when I round the hood of the truck. “Hey, Beautiful.” I stop a couple of feet from her, afraid I might stink. “God, I’m glad you’re here.”
She’s gripping the still open door of the Jeep, looking me up and down. Then she frowns a little.
Shit, can she smell me from here?
