Page 28 of The Trouble with Wanting

“Much better than the messy bun, huh?”

He shakes his head. “Not better, just different. You look beautiful, by the way.”

I blush, enjoying the way his eyes take me in before I can’t handle his full attention and turn to grab my seatbelt.

Boyd pulls out of the front drive and turns onto the one major road that seems to loop all the way around the lake, though I’m not sure it should be called a ‘major road’ since it’s a single lane each way. Trees go up into the hills that circle Cedar Point on one side, and there’s a flat dip into the lake on the other.

I pretend to watch as the houses to the left pass us in a blur, the lake in the background, but really, I’m looking at Boyd.

I don’t think I’ve ever pinpointed the mountain man type as something that does it for me, but holy goodness. Boyd’s relaxed posture and this flannel shirt, one hand on the steering wheel of his scruffy truck—it’s like something out of a Hallmark movie, and I am so here for it.

“I really like your truck,” I say, my eyes roving over the tan interior that has clearly been treated with a combination of love and abuse over the years.

“Thanks.” Boyd runs his hand along the wheel, a tender gesture. “Hank was my baby in high school, but I left it here when I moved to the east coast. I always hijack it from my dad when I’m in town.”

I laugh. “Hank? Where does that come from?”

“Hank McCoy? The Beast?”

I just watch him with confusion in my eyes.

“You’re breaking my heart right now, Ruby,” Boyd says, clutching at his chest like he might collapse at any moment.

Which, of course, only makes me want to giggle even more.

“Your dad doesn’t mind being carless while you’re in town?”

“Nah, I leave him with the keys to my rental, and I always get something fancy so he can enjoy himself.” Boyd shrugs a shoulder then looks at me with a smile. “He pretends to hate it, but it’s all bullshit. Besides, there’s no way I’m coming to town and spending my days driving around Cedar Point in anything other than Hank.”

I’ve never owned a car in my life, and I only got my driver’s license a few years ago when my mom insisted I learn. I can’t picture having a vehicle I love enough to name, but for some reason, the sentimental warmth of it rings true for the kind of person Boyd seems to be.

“You settling in okay?”

I tilt my head from side to side. “Yes and no. I mean, the guesthouse is great.”

“Yeah, I’ve been in there before. Linda redid it a few years ago and my mom can’t stop raving about how she wants us to update our guesthouse to the same style.”

“Oh, you’ve been in it?” I ask, wondering how I feel about Boyd knowing more about Linda and Ken than I do.

He nods. “We’ve used it a few times for family when our house couldn’t fit everyone.”

My eyebrows fly off my face. “Your house is monstrous—how does it not fit everyone?”

That gets me a laugh.

“Well, there are a lot of Mitchells,” he says. “My siblings and me, my parents and grandparents. My dad’s two sisters and brother, and my mom’s four brothers. They’re all married and have kids, and some of my cousins are married with kids of their own.”

He lifts a shoulder as if he hasn’t just described an entire clan of people cramming in under one roof.

“Usually, people visit here and there, taking a guest room or staying in the guesthouse, but sometimes we do family reunions and it’s packed. When we can’t fit everyone, we borrow cabins or guesthouses from our neighbors.”

“People in this town must really like you,” I say, trying to figure out which of my neighbors would allow me to use their open guest rooms for visiting family.

I’m unsurprised when my mind comes up blank.

Boyd gives me a wink. “You could say that.”

We drive along for a few more minutes, my eyes looking out my own window to take in the mammoth trees and beautiful scenery.

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