Page 10 of Commit

“Yeah.” She looks out the window. “My mom named me after Remington Arms. When I was born, she was dating some guy who liked hunting.”

“Was that your dad?”

“Nope. I don’t know who my dad is.” She faces me completely, changing the subject. “I shouldn’t have given you my phone number the other day at the batting cages.” She holds the button on the side of the door, slowly lowering the window. “I’m rolling this down just in case you use the gun on me and I need to yell HELP to someone passing by.”

“Relax. We’re going skeet shooting.”

“Skeet shooting?” Her brows pull up, and I’m quickly learning this girl comes with the most adorable expressions.

“You know, where you shoot clay targets.”

She drums her fingers on the side of the door. “So, you’re like a cowboy?”

“Is skeet shooting only for cowboys?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never been.”

“Well, I’m about the furthest thing you can get from a cowboy. I don’t own an overly large belt buckle or a cowboy hat.”

“That’s a shame.” Her eyes go playful. “I’m really into cowboys.”

Noted. When I get home, I’m overnighting a pair of Wranglers.

I smirk. “For our first date, I figured it’s only fair to do something where I can critique your form. Maybe for our second date, we can go back to the batting cages.”

“That’s a little presumptuous. There may not be a second date. I don’t even know if I like you yet.”

“I’ve got a good hunch that you do.”

Remi grabs her water bottle, taking a sip to hide her smile. Based on that smile, I must be doing something right.

“I’m still deciding if I want to go out with you again,” she says, dropping her water bottle to her lap. “I need a little more information.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“Let’s start with the basics.” She tilts her head to me. “Where are you from?”

“Tampa.”

“Why did you move to Houston?”

“For work.”

“What do you do for fun?”

“Math.”

She laughs. “There goes your second date.”

“What’s wrong with math? Math can be sexy.”

“No, it can’t.” She lifts her bottle for another drink, pausing to say, “Unless, of course, you’re a rocket scientist. That’s sexy enough for a second date.”

“I am a rocket scientist.”

A spray of water shoots out of her mouth, dusting the side of my face and arm. Water covers the dash and the windshield as her hand goes to her lips, holding in the last bits of liquid that didn’t escape with the burst.

“Nice try!” she says between her laughs. She leans forward, wiping the water away with her forearm.

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