It might’ve been from the sound.
And it might’ve been because I know who’s driving.
A large palm flips up into a subtle wave over the steering wheel as the truck zooms by. I wave, too, before darting my eyes back in front of me, lest I turn around and actually watch him from behind.
Good grief, Haley. It’s his truck, not his ass.
Kaylee laughs.
“What?” I ask, looking up at her.
“Come on, Haley.”
“Come on, what?” I twist my lips so I can’t smile. “Do you want to go to Bela’s for a cupcake?”
She laughs again. “While I do love your affection for cupcakes and find it amusing that you pressured me for a walk today and now offer cupcakes as a distraction, I’ll pass on the dessert … and focus on the reason you’re trying to distract me.”
My gaze drops back to my shoes again.
I spent all of last night trying to distract myself.
I mulled it over—and over and over—trying to decide how I felt about my impromptu proposal at Fireside. Should I be embarrassed? Humiliated? Proud of myself for thinking on my feet?
Despite hours playing that game, while also playing Mahjong, I came up with nothing.
I don’t know how to feel.
It was initiated by desperation. That much is clear. I sat with my manuscript open while I played a game on my phone because I was unable to determine how Casper Jenkins sounded. In my head, he speaks almost lyrically. But when I put my fingers on the keyboard, he comes out gruff. Moody. Difficult.
He sounds a whole heck of a lot like Grayson, but I’ll never admit that to anyone.
“So,” Kaylee prods. “Wanna tell me what that flirty wave you just exchanged with Grayson Blake was all about?”
“I don’t know. A hello? Good morning? A small-town greeting?” I shrug. “Didn’t you wave back? I’m sure he was waving at both of us. Look at you being rude.”
She grins. “He wasn’t waving at me, and we both know it.”
I try really hard not to smile.
“Derrick swore up and down that Grayson had a thing for you,” Kaylee says, smugly. “I thought he was projecting his obsession for younger women onto Grayson, but now I think that maybe he was onto something.”
“He. Waved. At. Me—us.”
She wags a finger in the air. “Nope. He was in Cherry Pie Pizza a few days ago, and Rueben Cantal mentioned you—something about a drink you made him at Fireside. You should’ve seen Grayson’s ears turn around. He looked like he could independently control them.”
“Stop it,” I say, blinking rapidly.
“And then we were both at Pearl’s just yesterday, and you drove by. Let me tell you that he followed your car with his eyes all the way down Love Lane.”
“You are out of your mind.”
We slow our pace as we take a right onto Wishing Lane.
My head spins with the comments—observations that probably aren’t true or are embellished in her brain—because she needs that to Band-Aid over the hurt in her heart over Derrick. She needs to be wrapped up in some other love story.
That sounds nice.
Too bad, it won’t be mine.
“Look, Grayson Blake is …” I begin, but my voice dissipates into thin air.
I don’t know how to finish that—not without looking like an obsessed, hopeless romantic. And, while I am a hopeless romantic, I am not obsessed with the town mechanic.
I know better.
“He’s fine as hell,” Kaylee offers.
“Good. Use him as your rebound.”
As soon as I say it, I kick myself. I’d be happy for Kaylee. She deserves a guy like Grayson but seeing my friend with him—kissing and touching and all that jazz—would make me green with envy. And green does not look good on me.
“I’m not rebounding,” she says with a laugh. “I have a teenage daughter to think about. What would it look like to her if I started sleeping around?”
“Uh, I don’t know. Like you’re a woman. A human. That you’re enjoying the company of a male while not in a monogamous marriage—which seems like a very practical stance to take considering what her father pulled.”
She rolls her eyes. “I hate when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make sense.”
We stop at the intersection of Wishing Lane and Love Lane … and stare at the front of Blake Brother Auto Repair.
Shit.
I feel Kaylee’s gaze burning into the side of my face as she waits for me to decide whether to cross the road—and head straight for Blake Brother—or take a right and continue down Love Lane.
I take a right.
She follows, smirking at my back. I can feel it.
“He hates me,” I call out over the sound of Tristan’s motorcycle as he passes us.
“Who?” Kaylee asks.
“Grayson.”
She scurries to catch up. “He does not hate you, you silly girl.”
“Eh, yeah. I kind of think he does. At least a little bit.”
“Will you stop it?” She grabs my arm. “And slow the heck down, for crying out loud. I’m chubby. And old.”