My Friday class got cancelled, and Kade skipped his because he wanted to get us there earlier. I don't know why I agreed to that.
"Raya, you're making me nervous. What's going on?" he grumbles, letting the long trip make him cranky.
As I turn onto the next road, Kade reclines back and watches me, waiting on an answer.
In one heavily rushed breath, I answer, "It doesn't matter how many times we tell her we're friends, my mother is still going to try shoving me down your throat. My stepdad is going to have his beer glued to his hand, and he'll say 'yes, dear' at random times, even if no one has said anything, because he's a zombie most of the time. My stepbrother is going to be cruel, scary, and completely obnoxious simply because you're a guy who is acquainted with me. His wife is sweet - too sweet. She'll ask you a thousand times if you're okay or if you need anything. That's what has me nervous. This whole weekend is a recipe to humiliate me and drive you crazy."
His laughter bursts free, and he covers his mouth to smother it when I glare at him.
"Raya, you seriously have to learn to relax."
I sigh out wearily when I see the trailer park just ahead. I haven't even warned him. His honest reaction should help douse all these unbidden feelings I keep having for him.
He reclines back, placing his hands behind his head as I turn onto the rundown road. I keep expecting him to ask what we're doing, but he doesn't. When I pull into my mother's gravel driveway and stop right in front of the single-wide trailer, parking Kade's flashy Range Rover behind the Ford truck that looks like it's about to collapse, he still remains unaffected. He doesn't even seem disturbed by his expensive ride being parked so close to something that has more rust than paint these days. My brother's cavalier is parked in the grass beside my stepfather's truck, and my mom's intrepid is on the other side, next to the porch.
Kade looks around, taking in the scenery.
"This is it," I murmur softly, still waiting on his reaction.
"I'll grab the bags. You can head on in," he says while climbing out.
That's not the reaction I expected. I whip around to see if he's turning his nose up in disgust, but instead, he's waving at a neighbor kid who's riding by on his bike. He's smiling. How in the world is he smiling?
He's a prince in a trailer park. Something is amiss.
I slowly get out, still waiting on the shoe to drop. I'm wondering what's going through his mind. Has he even noticed the faded white trailer with a rotting porch is my home?
The double layered widows all carry at least one crack or hole from my stepfather running over a rock with the lawnmower. The inner panels are solid, but that's only because he always replaces them. He has to.
The lattice that wraps around the underpinning has been chewed up by the neighborhood dogs. My stepfather doesn't believe in trimming the weeds, so dry stalks stick up around every corner the mower didn't reach during the warmer months.
Now that we're not in the warm air of Sterling Shore, I regret wearing shorts. As a matter of fact, it's frigging cold.
"You okay?" I ask curiously, possibly trying to provoke some sort of irritation in his response. I refrain from releasing a shiver against the cool bite of the wind.
Why does he have to look so good? In nothing more than a Fox Racing shirt and a pair of dark denim jeans, he looks like he could walk down the runway.
"Yeah, why?" he asks, bemused as he pulls out the bags, bringing me back to reality.
I needed one bag, but the prince has two. Figures.
"Primp much?" I tease, changing the subject while motioning toward his luggage.
Holding the straps to all three bags in one hand, he laughs and shakes his head while closing the back hatch to the Range Rover. "One of my bags has a nice wine selection. There's a chiller built in to keep it the perfect drinking temperature. I started to bring a decanter, but I thought that might come off as a little pretentious."
Chilled perfectly? Decanter? Is that another language?
"Pretentious? No. We always decant our boxes of wine," I say deadpan, but then a smile creeps up.
My joke is rewarded with his sweet laugh, and I grin my girly smile in response as I stare at him with a whole new appreciation. I'm starting to forget our very different worlds.
"You really shouldn't have brought wine."
"I'm a guest. It's customary for the guest to bring the hosts a gift. I always bring wine. It's easy, and it's always a big hit," he says with a shrug.
"Yeah, but my family isn't going to know the difference between the service station wine and the ungodly priced stuff you're probably carrying around. My stepbrother drinks the stuff right out of the bottle. Just... I don't know... We'll grab a pie tomorrow for you to give them."
He laughs again, making the butterflies within me ruffle. "They can guzzle my wine. I promise, it's fine."