Page 17 of Alive and Wells

“Yes, please.” I dig into the bag containing my new cell phone. Even though I have the number memorized, adding Beryl as a proper contact is exhilarating. My fingers tap on the screen, shocked to find there’s already a contact profile there. “D-did you add your number to my phone?”

“Mhm,” he murmurs, clearly not seeing what’s so strange about this situation.

Austin’s hand grips my headrest as he turns to back out of the stall. At first, I inconspicuously weave my head away from his incoming open palm. Then, once my nervous system determines the move isn’t threatening, his proximity sets a kaleidoscope of butterflies free in my chest. Imagining his hand slipping off the upholstered seat, and touching my bare shoulder, elicits a shiver down my spine.

“You know you need to actually speak—using words—to talk to somebody on the phone, right?” I know he takes ranch-related phone calls a thousand times per day, but he always steps out of the room. It remains to be seen whether he actually speaks to the person on the other end.

The corner of his lip pulls into a strikingly adorable smile. Considering how hot he is with a scowl, I’d be in serious trouble if he smiled like this all the time. If I wasn’t staring directly at him, which is something I find myself doing alotmore than I should lately, I would’ve missed it altogether. Like a shooting star across his face, gone as quickly as it appeared.

“Not if we text, darlin’.”

Am I having a stroke?

“Text?” I croak. “I didn’t peg you for a texter.”

His nostrils flare as he maintains focus on the road ahead. “I could start if you’d like.”

It’s official. I’m definitely dead because there’s no way this grizzly bear of a man who seems to like looking at me, but isn’t interested in talking to me, wants me totext him. It’s a seriously laughable thought. Though he’s not laughing. In fact, he’s right back to his natural stoic expression.

“Yeah?” My corpse somehow forms words. “What would we text about?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

The pungent smell of leather floods my nostrils the moment we step into the tack shop. A shelved wall filled with cowboy boots would be overwhelming on the best of days. Right now, it’s definitely too much to think about. What with Austin’s offer to text him hanging in the air and all.

I shop mostly in peace, although I can’t stop myself from stealing glances in his direction. I want to understand why he’s so hot and cold. He says he doesn’t hate me, and got visibly nervous when I suggested that he doesn’t like me. Austin doesn’t exactly exude Casanova energy, so I don’t think he’s trying to toy with me.

Anyway, I shouldn’t care what his game plan is because surely it’s too soon to be interested in a new man.

And yet, I’m more interested than I thought would ever be possible.

Thanks to a slightly condescending but overall helpful employee, I learn I can pretty much wear whatever boots I want for work. Which doesn’t make my purchase decision any easier. By the time I’ve made my selection, Austin’s too busy arguing with Tate, the store owner, about horse supplements to potentially intervene and pay for my boots. Although a very small part of me wishes he would when the price tag nearly causes me to pass out. I officially don’t have anywhere close to enough money for tires. Who knew cowboys are out here trashing shoes worth hundreds of dollars?

Bag in hand, I pretend to be perusing an assortment of blingy belt buckles while watching the heated debate. Tate’s in his mid-fifties, and has been sweet to me anytime I’ve stopped in to pick up supply orders for the ranch. Today, there’s an irritated wrinkling between his brows and his lips are pursed as he listens to whatever Austin’s rambling about. Before now, I wasn’t sure whether Austin was capable of saying more than half a dozen words in a row. I also didn’t know I would find it as attractive as I do. Although, maybe it’s not the discussion so much as the ass-hugging Wranglers, cowboy boots, and plaid long-sleeve that’s tight across his broad shoulders.

After a few minutes, Austin turns and searches for me. A comforting sensation fills my body when our eyes lock. Apparently, the past few weeks of barely talking have taught us to read each other’s minds because I briefly look at the open doorway and he’s immediately walking toward it. No questions asked—we’re back at the truck in under thirty seconds.

“Do you want to see my boots?” I don’t leave time for him to answer in my excitement to show them off. While Kate rocks a plain, camel-brown pair, I couldn’t stop myself from grabbing the darker shade, square toe with bright turquoise stitching.

“They’re boots. Seen one pair, you’ve seen ’em all,” he says, stealing a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. “Anywhere else you need to go?”

I shake my head no, fingering the detailed stitching on my new “shitkickers”. We pull back onto the road and, a couple of blocks later, into the only gas station in town.

In a single motion, he slides off the seat, pulls his wallet from his pocket, and holds it out to me. “You want anything inside? My treat.”

Call it trauma, call it feminism, call it stupidity. His offer forms a knotted ball in my throat, that I’m forced to speak around to politely decline. There’s nothing about the way he’s acted today that should make this feel like a test—yet it does. He’s probably offering because it’s the chivalrous thing to do, not because he has malicious intentions. But, like the towels and cuticle oil, it’s another thing he could potentially hold over my head. And, even though Iamthirsty, there’s no way I can walk into the store with him and buy my own drink. I can guarantee he wouldn’t let me.

I shut my eyes, letting my temple rest against the sunbaked passenger window. As I’m still kicking myself for not taking him up on his offer, he climbs back into the pickup.

His gravelly voice makes my eyes pop open. “Dr. Pepper and cream soda slushies. Take whichever one you like. I’ll drink either.”

Bizarre. Austin outside of the ranch is simply bizarre.

9

Cecily

Foramoment,neitherof us seems eager to leave the truck. And then cowboys walk around the side of the barn, and the spell over us is broken.

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