Truth or Beard Page 13

  “Sorry,” he said, pressing gently on the brake to slow our velocity, then cleared his throat and offered by the way of an explanation, “I’m used to taking these roads fast. I didn’t mean to toss you around.”

  I braced my arm again the passenger side door. “It’s fine. I just…” I shook my head. “I just wanted to apologize for Jackson, the way he acted. He was being unfair and unkind and we had words earlier. I’m sorry about that.”

  Duane shrugged. “Well, he wouldn’t be much of a brother if he wasn’t overprotective. I feel the same way about my sister…” I got the impression he hadn’t quite ended his sentence and was proven right when he finally finished, “and my brothers.”

  Duane’s gaze flickered to mine and he gave me a hint of a smile. I melted a bit at his rare smile, and I felt myself relax against the seat.

  And that’s when I realized how comfortable the seat was.

  And that’s when I finally took the three seconds required to actually look at this car in which I was riding.

  It was old, a classic of some sort. The upholstery was teal leather and the seat was a bench style, the kind that allowed a passenger to snuggle up close to the driver.

  “Duane Winston, what kind of car is this?”

  He was in profile but I saw his smile grow. “It’s a ’68 Plymouth Road Runner.”

  I studied the rest of the car, or what I could see of it. The two-door antique had a backseat, similar bench style to the front and everything was in pristine condition.

  “It’s kind of small for the time, isn’t it? I mean, weren’t most Plymouths built at that time big old land cruisers?”

  Duane’s hands tightened a bit on the steering wheel, his thumb caressing the inside of the circle. “It’s a muscle car, so it’s built for speed.”

  I tried to remember what the outside of the car looked like, and could recall only basic lines and shiny black paint. “It doesn’t really look like a muscle car, not like the Mustang.”

  “It’s got a 4-barrel carburetor engine, pushing out 335 horsepower—but, you’re right, the Road Runner doesn’t have any of that flashy chrome finish or plush doodads you see with other higher priced GTXs of the same era. It doesn’t need to be showy. Its beauty is in its simplicity. Simple, straightforward design…with hidden depths.” He paired this with an impressive engine growl, and accelerated lightning fast along a straight stretch of road. The car certainly was responsive.

  I smiled at that, glancing around the interior once more and noting the lack of fussy trimmings. He was right, it was a stunning car. Its minimalism only contributed to its effortlessness beauty. But I could feel the untapped potential, its restless restrained power. It was sexy as hell.

  “You’re right, it’s gorgeous.” Because I was obviously a horndog, talking about the hidden depths and restrained power of his muscle car was getting me hot and bothered. I decided to redirect the conversation toward hopefully benign territory. “Did you restore it yourself?”

  “Yep.”

  “Even the upholstery?”

  “Yes. I restored her myself, even the upholstery.”

  “Her?” I passed my hand over the bench, touching the leather with newfound respect and reverence now that I knew Duane was responsible for the flawless restoration. Based on this information, I presumed he’d also restored the Mustang I was borrowing.

  I was happy to see his smile return as he halted and idled at a stop sign. Duane slid his pretty eyes to mine; I saw echoes of his hot look from the community center, though it appeared to be mostly restrained. “Yes, her. All cars are girls.”

  My smile was huge as I was feeling delightfully unsteady under his perusal. “And why is that? Because they’re so pretty, useful, and hardworking?”

  Duane’s eyes drifted down my body in an unhurried examination; the spark of heat and appreciation in his gaze made me suspicious of his true thoughts, which were only punctuated by his next words.

  “Because when a guy sees a car he likes, all he can think about is getting under the hood or taking her for a ride.”

  This time I threw my head back and laughed with gusto and shocked delight. This was the second time he’d done this, surprised me with his audacity. On Thursday, when he’d shown up at my work with the Mustang, I figured he was just trying to get a rise out of me, but now I saw this new banter for what it was. Duane Winston was funny. And a flirt.

  In all the years I’d known him, and all the arguments and shouting matches we’d had, I never would have guessed that Duane was this funny. Or a flirt.

  Sly? Yes.

  Smart? Certainly.

  Serious and stern? Undoubtedly.

  Funny and flirty? No.

  He was full of surprises.

  As my laughter lessened and morphed into large grin, I turned in my seat and studied him openly. I had to shake myself a little. Before last Friday, never in my wildest—or strangest—dreams could I have imagined that Duane Winston would ever be interested in me, not because there was something wrong with me, but because he always left me with the impression that I irritated the bejeebus out of him.

  Just like I never thought in a million years I’d be so completely drawn to him.

  But here I was…

  “What? What’s wrong?” He frowned at my examination, sparing me a quick glance as he turned right onto the Parkway.

  “Oh, nothing.” I kept staring at him…but not him. I was looking for the Duane I remembered, the one who barely tolerated me, picked verbal sparring matches, and put lizards down my Sunday school dress. “I guess, it’s weird. Right? I mean, you and I grew up together. We used to run around these forests with the other Green Valley kids like a pack of wild animals.”

  His subtle smile was back, but this time it looked nostalgic. “So?”

  “So, here we are. We’re adults. And we’re out together.”

  “We went for a drive on Thursday and you didn’t seem phased by it.”

  “Yeah, but this is a date. See, I know you—I could tell anyone who asked that you’re a terrible swimmer, or how you drive too fast, or how you got that scar on your right arm, or that you’re better at baseball than any of your brothers—but I don’t know you. It’s like being on a date with two different people, the boy I knew and the…the,” I stuttered, then paused, stopping myself just in time. A slight rush of embarrassment made my tongue lame because I was about to say, and the sweet, gorgeous man you’ve become.

  And that would have been a bizarre thing to say at the beginning of a first date. Honest, but bizarre.

  “And the what?” he prompted, sliding his eyes to mine as he came to another straight stretch on the mountain road.

  I cleared my throat, my chest a sudden and odd combination of achy and fluttery. “The kid I knew, and the man you’ve become. I don’t know this new you very well. It’s a bit disconcerting to feel confident that I know all about you, but have no idea who you really are.” I glanced down and frowned at my purple nail polish, certain I was making a mess of my thoughts. “I’m not explaining this very well.”

  Duane reached over and grabbed one of my hands, sending a warm jolt up my arm and to my ribs.

  “You’re explaining things just fine.” He squeezed my fingers and gave me a quick, reassuring smile. “When we were at the lake last week and I told you we’re different now, both of us have changed, that’s what I meant.”

  “But don’t you think it’ll be weird?”

  “So what? So it’s weird. Weird can be good.”

  “We grew up together. I mean, when we were kids I saw you naked like…,” I counted in my head, “three times. Maybe more.”

  “Is this your way of telling me that you don’t want to see me naked for a fourth time?”

  I answered emphatically and without thinking, “Oh, hell no, you should be naked all the time.”

  Duane’s grin was immediate; but his laughter was stifled, like he was trying to contain it. I rolled my eyes at myself once I realized what I’d ju
st said and let myself feel appropriately embarrassed. My head fell back on the seat and I closed my eyes.

  “See now, here’s the problem. I would never say anything like that on a first date, or even a tenth date.”

  “I still don’t see a problem.”

  “I’m too comfortable speaking my mind around you. Speaking my mind to Duane Winston is not just my default, it’s a moral imperative.” I announced this to the windshield as I opened my eyes and stared at the fall foliage lining the narrow road. Brilliant streaks of red, dark purple, orange, and yellow—a beauty I’d taken for granted as a kid—blurred together as we sped by

  “That’s just because you’re used to arguing with me.”

  “Yes. Exactly. First dates are like a job interview. It’s about putting your best foot forward, not arguing and speaking your mind.”

  “Well, I’ve never interviewed for a job, but I can’t think of anything better than Jessica James speaking her mind.”

  I shook my head at him, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. “That’s not fair.”

  “What’s not fair?”

  “You’re saying all the right things. Whereas I’m being completely honest.”

  He challenged lightly, “What makes you think these right things I’m saying isn’t me being completely honest?”

  I blinked, then stared at him, at his profile. My heart sped at his last words and my breath seemed to catch. Pinpricks of awareness covered my skin accompanied by a nervous uncertainty. I averted my eyes back to the windshield and stared unseeingly forward.

  Did I want to kiss the hell out of him? Yes, I did.

  Did I want to wrap his banana and let him have his way with my coconuts? Yes. I wanted that to happen.

  Did I want him to say all the right things, with sincerity, revealing his hidden depths (as well as a few of mine)?

  …

  …

  …

  I honestly had no idea.

  On one hand, yes. Yes. YES! This Duane was sweet and sincere, generous and wonderful, funny and sexy. I’d known him forever, we had history. I’d thought the history would hinder a relationship between us, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Our history only added to this growing connection, provided gravity of feeling and understanding. What more could I want? What more could I ask for?

  On the other hand, no. No. NO! Duane had roots. Subterranean, cavernous roots. He was a local business owner, he had a big family. I couldn’t imagine him ever leaving Tennessee. This was his home, and home was a physical place for him.

  But Green Valley wasn’t where I belonged. I’d known I would never stay my whole life.

  Regardless, I was moving deeper without meaning to, wading out of my shallow pool. And this was only our first date, a date that hadn’t even technically started yet.

  At some point I was going to have to tell him I had plans and those plans meant I would be leaving. Eventually. Definitely.

  I needed to be honest…but not yet.

  ***

  Cooper Road Trail was definitely an off-the-beaten-path kind of park. Duane’s was the only car in the lot when we pulled in. I knew of this locale mostly because my momma loved to hike the trail in June, when the orange and yellow daylilies bloomed along the path. The summer air smelled sweet and warm, and was alive with buzzing bees and rushing water from nearby waterfalls.

  It was a first come, first served kind of place, no camping reservations accepted. It was also exceedingly difficult to find if you weren’t a longtime citizen of the Valley. The campsite was small, verging on cramped, and had roughly ten or so spots; five of those spots were on a shallow and relatively wide clear-water stream, typical for the area.

  When we arrived and Duane pulled a mountaineering backpack from his trunk, along with a big basket hamper, I abruptly remembered I’d left the beer in the refrigerator at home.

  “Oh, shoot!” I grimaced, rubbing my forehead.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I was in such a rush to escape my brother I forgot our drinks at the house.”

  Duane shrugged. “No problem. I have water in the bag.”

  I stepped forward and moved to take the basket from his hands. “Do you have anything other than water?”

  “No. Just water.”

  “Oh. Okay.” My heart sank a little. It was the one thing I was supposed to bring and I’d forgotten. Even though he appeared to shrug it off, I felt like I’d let him down.

  As we walked together past the campsites and to the hiking trail, making small talk about the park, I tried to similarly shrug off my forgetfulness. I didn’t like taking advantage and I didn’t like letting him down. And, though it was irrational, I hated looking like a flake.

  I didn’t mind if people thought I was silly-slash-weirdo, cross-dressing sexy Gandalf, but I couldn’t abide anyone thinking I was unreliable. Because I wasn’t, I was trustworthy and took my responsibilities very seriously.

  While I was still chastising myself, Duane led me off the path when we were about a quarter mile down the trail. I was thankful I’d worn my hiking boots because we had to splash through some wet areas and slippery rocks. Duane was careful to take my hand and plot out the driest course each time. His chivalry, care, and attention contributed to my mounting appreciation, and left me feeling tongue-tied and flushed.

  I finally let go of kicking myself for being forgetful when I noticed Duane’s chivalry was increasingly tempered with reluctant and distracted moments of ogling.

  Three times I caught him checking out my ass. Afterward he’d clench his jaw and frown severely at the ground, or the sky, or the trees lining the path. I found these little cracks in his control delightful.

  “We’re almost there.” He glanced down at me, having just helped me hop over a few wet stones and not releasing my hand even after clearing the rough patch. “Is the basket too heavy? I don’t mind carrying it.”

  “No. It’s fine. You’ve got the backpack.”

  His eyes took a detour to the unbuttoned V of my top, and the cleavage I’d purposefully (and artfully) highlighted with a push-up bra. “Are you cold?”

  I shook my head, hiding my pleased smile. “No. I’m great.”

  He frowned at the exposed swell of my breasts, seemed to redirect his eyes away with effort. He pulled his attention back to the narrow path. I indulged my urge to smirk. Tight jeans, strategically unbuttoned top, push-up bra…this was fun.

  I’d be lying if I said his intense interest in my body wasn’t a huge turn on—for both my brain and my…other brain. It was. I liked that he looked at me and had difficulty hiding his appreciation and desire. If anything I felt less flustered each time I spied him clenching his jaw or balling his hands into fists. I liked him so much. It was nice to see tangible evidence that he meant it when he’d said kissing me was something he’d wanted for a long time.

  Still feeling cheered, I was surprised when we reached our destination so quickly. He hadn’t been fibbing; no more than ten feet later I was faced with a picturesque clearing at the edge of a wide, still stream and I sucked in a small breath. I didn’t know this place existed. If I’d known this place existed then I would have become one of those nature people who forage the woods for sustenance and bathe in moonlit pools.

  The trees overhead and their autumn brilliance reflected in the water—vivid strokes of color. We were surrounded on all sides by nature’s majesty, its swan song celebration before winter. The setting was almost painfully romantic.

  “Will this do?” His voice was low, just a rumble, but it held equal parts sweetness and amusement.

  I moved my wide eyes to his and nodded once. His mouth tugged to the side, like he was pleased by my inability to speak, but didn’t want to commit to a smile. Duane took the basket from my grip and placed it on the ground, dropping his big backpack next to it.

  “There’s a felled tree just there.” He pointed to the embankment. I spotted a large, old eastern hemlock log about as high as my knee, half on land, hal
f in the water. “It’s a good place to sit while I get all this ready.”

  “You don’t need any help?”

  “No—you go sit, relax.” He appeared to be determined and was already digging into the pack, revealing a large quilted tarp and spreading it on the ground.

  I studied him as he moved, pulling items out of his bag of tricks. Since I felt useless just standing there as he worked, I decided to take his suggestion…sort of. Instead of sitting on the log, I climbed it. Then I used it as a balance beam and walked the length of the old tree where it jutted out into the stream.

  The early November air was crisp, just chilly enough to bite. Soon all the leaves would fall, leaving this spot bare and brown. I felt like I was looking at the pinnacle of a particularly dazzling firework as it filled the night sky, just before it lost its shape and faded into darkness. It was a fleeting moment. And I stood in the center of it.

  “I hope you’re not expecting me to rescue you.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, found Duane at the edge of the stream, his hands on his hips, his square jaw angled in a stubborn tilt.

  “Rescue me? From a log?”

  “No. From the water. Should you fall in.”

  I grinned. “More likely I’d rescue you. Are you afraid I’ll steal your pants?”

  I nearly lost my balance when he answered my grin with one of his own, but he quickly hid it by redirecting his attention to the ground at his feet. When he lifted his face again, a residual smile remained, but he mostly looked serious…and focused…on me.

  He cleared his throat and his voice sounded different, deep and commanding—maybe a little impatient—as he said, “Come back here.”

  I turned carefully and picked my way back, scanning the spread he’d placed on an old large picnicking quilt. I figured the tarp was hidden underneath, meant to protect our backsides from the damp earth. I also spotted a few cushy pillows, a throw blanket presumably just in case we got cold, and an array of covered dishes to one side.