Page 171 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
I thought his smell was strong before. But as he drags the material over my eyes and nose, his smell is like a shadow. And the way he does it, tender and soft, it’s the kind of softness that contrasts with the roughness of his body.
I blink, against the sting, forcing my vision to clear. His closeness hits me hard. His knee is so close to my core, and the heat of it presses into me, steady and burning. His broad body blocks my view, narrowing everything down to just him—his scent, his warmth, the way his hand cradles my head like he’s the one with control here.
He lifts a dry patch of his undershirt to my face, sliding it down my cheek. Not the plaid shirt Bronx soaked—this one’s tighter, a size too small, and his muscles strain the seams.
That’s what I notice.
Not the charred power bar or the booth frosted in a thick coat of foam.
His eyes meet mine, and the intensity of that gaze shakes something deep inside me. There’s something in it, something primal, something untamed—and he has no right giving me any of those looks.
I glare at him. “Seriously?”
“Take a second. Breathe. I’ve got you now.”
“You got my face. And my hair. And I’m pretty sure I swallowed a mouthful of that disgusting, thick white goop.”
The grin that creeps up his face makes me want to hit him.
“Don’t make it dirty,” I spit out.
“I didn’t say a word.” He offers a hand like he’s the big hero here.
I take his hand, my fingers slick with slushy and foam. He pulls me to my unsteady feet, but as soon as I’m upright, I slam a handful of the foam on his bruising face.
It splats his Stetson, and the absolute shock silences everyone around us.
He stares at me, eyes wide. His mouth opens like he’s about to grumble a whole lot of anger, but then, he cracks, and a deep, rumbling laugh escapes him.
It startles me. I think I expected anger. Definitely cursing as he stormed off.
You know, classic Hart.
Instead, there’s a glimpse of the Hart I once knew. The one whose laughter lit up a room. Who laughed about everything. Who didn’t live in the big, grumpy persona he does now?
“Well, ain’t this a fine mess?” He wipes a hand across his face, but it just smears the foam into a bigger mess.
A chuckle escapes me.
“You think that’s funny?” His voice is low, but playful.
He scoops a handful of sludge.
“You wouldn’t.”
With perfect aim, it hits my shoulder.
“Oh, so we’re doing this now.” I laugh, but I’m already loading up for round two.
I grab a fistful and throw. He dodges, and the glue-like substance hits a bystander. But not just any bystander.
There, standing at the edge of the booth, wiping the foam from his face, is Mayor Thomas Banks. Alongside him are our mama’s and the Quylt sisters, surveying the wreckage of our doing.
29: I RETALIATED WITH WHAT?
HART
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