Page 77 of Freedom Ride

“What is going on in that head of yours right now?” she demanded.

I shrugged and dropped the orange ribbon into my basket. “I think I have two days to finish this wreath, and then I need to start thinking about the Christmas wreaths for the church while I work on the twenty other orders I have for fall or Halloween wreaths. I’m busy, Missy.”

Missy tipped her head to the side and crossed her arms over her chest. “You are so full of shit, girlfriend. The man you had a crush on all of your life is back in town, and you’re going to tell me you’re thinking about wreaths? That you didn’t tell him you loved him?”

I nodded my head. “Yes, you will believe that because you are my best friend, and you know I don’t want to have this conversation at the craft store. And I told him I loved him as a friend. It was a “Have a great life, buddy. I love you.” Turning on my heel, I headed to where Jack stood behind the check-out counter.

“You know I’m just going to come over to your house after I get off of work,” Missy called after me.

I raised my hand over my head. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Missy.” Missy had been my best friend for almost twenty years. She had moved to Adams when we were both ten and had become one of my close friends that summer.

“You want wine or hard booze?” she asked.

I needed a damn tranquilizer if what she had told me was true. “Bring the Southern,” I replied.

“Woo, wee,” Missy chuckled. “This is going to be a fun night.”

I rolled my eyes and set my basket on the check-out counter. “You wouldn’t by chance have a bottle of booze behind the counter, would you, Jack?” I blew my hair out of my face and sighed.

“Uh, well, I think my dad might have a bottle hidden in his office,” Jack stammered. “I could see if I could get you a glass.”

Oh, sweet Jack. He was just a little too naïve for his good.

I nodded to the basket. “I think I can make it home without a glass. Thank you, though.”

Jack looked visibly relieved.

Five minutes later, I was sitting behind the steering wheel of my truck and closed my eyes.

Wilder Presley was back in town.

Twelve years ago, I had watched that man drive out of my life with not so much as a backward glance. He had broken my heart that day, and he hadn’t even known it.

Wilder Presley was back, and so were all those feelings I thought I had buried.

No amount of Southern was going to make this any easier.

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