Page 48 of When Sparks Fly

Cowboy:

Don’t worry, they won’t hurt me too badly before tonight.

Be ready at 7.

Me:

Yes, sir.

Care to tell me where we’re going now?

Cowboy:

>zippedlips emoji<

Standing in my bedroom with the closet doors flung open, I curse Sutton for keeping me in the dark. How is anyone supposed to dress appropriately if they don’t know where they’re going?

I wonder if I’ve given him the impression of needing to be wooed or impressed, or if this is just his nature.

The temperature has dropped again, so after entirely too long contemplating, I pull on some jeans and a pumpkin-colored, cashmere sweater. I’m still determined to strong-arm Texas into playing fair with the seasons. It’s not lost on me that I’ll lose.

Going through the house with Randi and Liv today was refreshing. Randi shared more stories with us from her childhood as Liv and I laughed and cried appropriately throughout. A large part of me feels like we honored Nana, did the house justice, by going through and talking about all the beautiful memories. Between today and the high of seeing Sutton again, nothing can dampen my mood.

About the time I throw myself onto the couch and turn the TV on, headlights crest the top of the driveway. The blinds are closed, so it’s just the shine that I notice, and this time I wait—quite impatiently—until Sutton comes to the door.

The rap of his knuckles against the wood sends electricity shooting down my spine.

It’s an effort to contain my giddiness as I open the door and take him in. He’s wearing a blue Henley that matches his eyes, jeans, and a light-colored felt hat. Authentically him, but all cleaned up. My mouth waters.

“Hi,” I say, pushing open the storm door.

“Hi, yourself,” he says, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. Once again, he pulls out an offering.

“Oh you brought me—” The words begin to tumble from my lips, expecting typical flowers, until my brain catches up to my eyes. I lean forward in the doorway examining what he holds more closely as my face scrunches in confusion. “Is that a cactus?”

My eyes fly up to his and he takes a step forward, gauging my response.

Sutton holds a small painted bowl with a tiny, purple-tinted cactus, the top of which is softly shaped like a heart.

“I came across it at the ranch.” He extends the bowl to me. “It’s a prickly pear.”

“It’s beautiful.” My weight shifts as I study the contents of the bowl in my hands, and like a magnet, Sutton shifts forward, stepping over the threshold. His eyes heat my skin.

“I know your stance on flowers.”

My mouth falls open and I catch a breath, my eyes shooting back to his. The corner of his mouth tips up and he presses his lips together, trying to hide a smirk.

My cheeks heat. He heard me. And he remembered.

Nana loved plants. She would talk about propagating cacti, among other things, and how to properly transfer them. This is no last-minute flower stop. My throat thickens. “Thank you.”

“Mhm.” He ducks his head to kiss me on the apple of my cheek. “You ready?”

“Yeah.” I’m already on fire. “Let me put this inside.” Thankfully, Sutton moves back so I can think straight. I take the cactus to my room, placing it on the bedside table.

I grab my cross-body bag from the foyer table and lock the door as we step onto the porch. He offers me a warm hand and leads me out to the truck, where he opens the door and waits for me to climb in sohe can close it.

His truck smells divine. I know it must be a particular woman who enjoys the smell of hay, livestock, and leather, mixed with his cologne, but I inhale deeply. In high school, Izzy showed pigs, something no one would believe by looking at her. The scent of the Ag barn, livestock shows, and rodeo are seared into my brain. It’s a welcomed scent that feels like coming home.

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