Page 40 of Where We Go From Here

Yeah I want to give her the small town experience, but that definitely is not about to involve her getting propositioned by every man in town who wants to get his hands on her.

I walk to the passenger side with her and before she can get her fingers on the handle I reach around her shoulder and click open the door. She looks back at me, surprised, and then silently dips into her seat. When her legs are tucked in I shut the door gently, and then I make my way to the driver’s side, ducking in, strapping up, and then punching the truck to life.

I can feel her eyes hot on my face so I glance over at her before I get the vehicle moving, sensing that she wants to say something.

She wets her lips, making me shift on my seat, and then she says, “I love that shirt on you. That shade of dusty blue… it really brings out your eyes.”

Now it’s my turn to be surprised. I look down at my torso, covered in a simple long-sleeved top. It’s a big size so I didn’t expect it to be so fitted, but I didn’t try it on before I bought it. Hell, I’m so used to wearing the same shit most days that I hadn’t actually tried it on before thisevening. I bought it in town when I was psyching myself up to ask Harper out and I only just ripped off the tags.

This is its first outing.

“Thanks,” I grunt, and then I tear my eyes off of her so that I can actually get us to town without ending this date prematurely, by pulling her up onto my lap and showing her all of the things that you can do inside a truck.

We crawl cautiously down the Nature Trail, all the way until we’re out onto the main spread of blacktop, and then it’s a steady cruise upland to the town, the truck’s headlights the only source of brightness before the road reaches the more populated centre. I drive slow and keep my boot gentle on the pedal, hoping to hit some red lights so that I can divert my attention back to the beautiful woman beside me, but we get green lights the whole damned way. The thick border of pine trees disappears into spaced out suburban housing, which leads directly to the town square, the buildings short and squat, with signage straight out of the silver-screen era. A couple dry cleaners, a cinema, and that godforsaken country bar.

I park up right in front of the restaurant that I wanted to take her to – the restaurant that I decided to still make a reservation at, in the hopes that Harper would see its romantic potential and suddenly change her mind – but the pull of the neon cowboy signpost and the subterranean hum of soft country music lures her right towards the bar. She’s out of the truck before I’ve even disentangled myself from my seatbelt.

I slap my door shut, lock up, and then jog a couple of paces to catch up to her, a jacket slung over my arm in case she wants to put it on when we leave.

I guess we’ll save the restaurant for another time.

She smiles up at me when I reach her and my heart skips a beat in my chest.

“Are we going to see some dancing?” she asks me hopefully, one hand twiddling with the end of a blown-out curl.

I take a glimpse through the large windows facing out onto the square and I can see that there are already couples milling about on the square patch designated for swaying. I grimace as I look back down at her and she laughs at my expression. My face reads:not if I have anything to do with it.

“Didn’t you have to learn this stuff in cowboy ethics or something?” she asks, her voice teasing, but I can see that twinkle of curiosity hiding behind her eyes.

I breathe a laugh and nod because, yeah, I’m not a cowboy but these parts are so rural that we actuallydiddo cowboy ethics when I was in high school. Which was a long-ass time ago. And which I have no intentions of reminding her about.

“Yeah, we were taught fundamentals. Theoretical fundamentals,” I hasten to add as we step up the curb and I reach for the door. The second I pull it open I’m met with the sex-me-up twanging of country strings.

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Are you not much of a… uh, a mover?” she asks, eyeing me up a little more shyly because I know what she’s implying.

I look down at her as we head up to the counter and her eyes are trailing over the swollen peaks of my pecs. I almost laugh.Don’t mind me, baby.

“Sure, I’m a mover,” I say, regaining her attention. “But I don’t do it in front of other people, and I don’t do it with strangers. If I have a partner I don’t want her jiving with any other guy on the floor – and I definitely don’t want my hands on any other woman.”

I look over to the dancers again and I pull a disgruntled face, absolutely steadfast that Harper is not going over there. The thought of other guys putting their hands on her waist? Not on my fucking watch.

When I look back down at her she’s watching me curiously so I give her a shrug and say, “It just doesn’t sit right with me.”

She blinks up at me, a little dazed, and then she nods in understanding. I pull a menu from beside the cash machine and hand it over to her.

“Are we eating?” she asks, splitting her concentration between watching my face and scanning the laminated card in her hands.

Eating out was my initial intention, hence the restaurant, but I’m not about to force her to eat diner style food in a place where cowboy hats are the literal wall décor.

“Whatever you want, Harper,” I say, and I scope out the room, checking for a vacant booth. I clock the one in the corner parallel to the end of the counter, and I’m instantly manoeuvring us over to it before it gets snapped up. My palms encase her exposed shoulders and she stifles a gasp, shivering.

She slides onto the pleather and then looks nervously up at me, wondering where I’m going to choose to sit. If I sit next to her then I’ll be able to touch her, but if I sit across from her then I’ll be able to look at her. Damn it, I want to do both. I opt to sit next to her whilst she picks what she wants, and then when I get back from paying I’ll move to the seat in front of her.

That was the plan at least. It turns out that I take up most of the bench, and I let out an embarrassed laugh when I’m forced to keep one thigh sticking out of the booth, my lap spread wide unlike Harper’s daintily crossed-legged position. She leans one arm on the table, resting her chin on her palm, and she looks up at me with something like amused omnipotence as my face gets hot. Like she just knew that I was a fucking dork.

I drop my coat over onto the bench-seat opposite and then I hold up the menu in front of us, Harper tipping her head to the side as she begins to browse it with me. I take the reprieve from her scrutiny to let my eyes trail down her throat, long tendons poking out beneath the surface and her skin a soft golden colour. Then when I realise that she’s suddenly flushing I turn my attention over to the menu, scanning for what’s caught her eye.

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