Page 122 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
Frustration builds. The paper keeps crinkling, refusing to cooperate.
Hart steps over without asking, his body too close for comfort.
“Let me help.” His voice is a mix of patience and something else I can’t quite place.
I don’t argue. This isn’t going to happen without him.
He takes the map, moves it to a flat rock by the fence, and lays out both halves, each crease smoothed carefully.
I step back, arms crossed, watching him.
“I suspect we’re about here.” He taps a spot on the map, naming off a few landmarks we’d passed.
The wind picks up again, grabbing the map. I step in to hold it down, and his arm brushes mine. I jolt away, but my foot catches on a loose rock.
A low sound escapes my throat as I start tipping backward. Then his arm snakes around my waist, steadying me.
Our faces are close. Too close.
For a second, everything else fades away.
His eyes lock onto mine, and for one heartbeat, I forget everything else. There’s confusion, need, and want swirling in those eyes. But what does it even mean?
The wind howls and snatches the map, lifting both halves into the air with a triumphant flutter.
“The map!”
He lets my waist go, and I hit the ground.
Ouch. Shit.
I roll over and climb to my knees and watch the paper twist and flap.
He charges for it, and I stand up and bolt to help.
The pieces snag on the fence. Hart drops to his knees, sliding and reaching for the lower half before the wind tugs it free. The second half catches on a nail at the top of the fence. I leap for it, but it jerks away, meeting the other half midair in a twisting dance.
My palms grip the rough wood of the fence. My foot is already wedged on the first post, prepared to climb over. But we’re too late.
The map flutters to the ground near the longhorn. He sniffs, looks at us both, and then, with majestic grace, he plants a massive hoof on the fragile paper.
A slow crunch.
I groan.
Hart curses.
The longhorn lowers its head and begins to chew.
I look at Hart.
He looks at me.
“Asshole.” I jump off the fence.
“I’m the asshole?”
“All the time. Shit!” I run my fingers through my scalp, at my last straw. “I don’t even know why you’re here.”
