Page 172 of You've Got Hate Mail
And then we’re hustling out of the restaurant.
But when he pulls his truck out of the parking lot, he doesn’t turn toward home. Instead, he takes us up a winding road, his hand on my thigh, all of his concentration on the road.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“It’s a surprise.”
“I love surprises.”
He shifts a glance at me, his expression softening. “You love everything.”
Oh, god.
Does he think he’s just one more thing that I love the way I love everything? That I meant I love sex when I saidI love you?
Is that better or worse than him thinking I meant I love him?
“Your brain’s smoking,” he murmurs.
“I don’t love going viral.”
“That’s a given.”
“But there’s a lot to love about life if you let yourself see it.”
He pulls off the main road, going deeper into the forest on a dirt road barely wide enough for his truck, and I stop talking.
If I were driving this road, I’d need all of my concentration.
Especially as I realize we’re climbing.
I see an occasional drop-off on my side of the truck as we climb.
Before long, he turns into a wider clearing, and I lose my breath.
The whole valley has opened up in front of us.
He kills the engine, and I sit gaping at the scenery.
We can see the ocean from here. The rolling hills dotted with fields and buildings.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer, and when I glance at him, he’s watching me. “It is,” he agrees softly in a way that tells me he’s not talking about the scenery.
I blush through the deepest layers of my skin.
My muscles might be blushing too. Some of my organs.
He smiles softly, then pops his door open and climbs out. A moment later, he’s opening my door for me too.
And then we’re out in the evening sunshine, fresh air and the scent of pine trees around us, all alone.
Looking at nature’s beauty.
He hooks an arm around my waist, and we lean against the truck, just watching the world below, until he nuzzles my hair with his nose.
And then I’m twisting into him, kissing him like I’ll die if I don’t.
