Page 30 of Play Me

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

Astrid

“That’s probably the last book I’ve read,” Gray says, stepping on the gas pedal and passing the slow-moving tractor we’ve followed for more than a couple of miles. “What about you?”

I gaze out the passenger side window, taking in the beauty of rural Tennessee. I’ve always loved getting out of the city. Gianna’s family would visit Kentucky every summer, and I tagged along a few times. Even as a child, I appreciated the peace and quiet, probably because my home life had neither.

Today has been a lot easier than I expected.

I spent the morning ordering supplies for Blakely’s party and communicating with Wayside about Gray’s deliverables for the sports drink campaign scheduled to run this fall.

It was just enough to keep me from stressing over Gray picking me up at one thirty for our trip to Sugar Creek.

“The last book I read was probably Romeo and Juliet or The Great Gatsby in high school,” I say.

Gray makes a face, looking offended.

“What?” I ask, laughing.

“I just … expected more from you. That’s all.”

“Don’t judge me.” I shake my head, amused. “I haven’t had a lot of free time since high school. Some of us weren’t rugby stars with leisure time.”

“Oh yeah. Right . Should’ve seen all the leisure time that I’ve had to play with.” He looks at me over the top of his sunglasses. “What kind of overachieving bullshit were you up to after high school, anyway?”

I chuckle, wrapping my arms around my middle, and shrug. “Let’s see. I graduated at seventeen and took on my second job. Worked both of those for a full year until I started community college.” I glance over at him. “Then I added a third job for shits and giggles.”

He flinches. “Third job? What are you? Wonder Woman?”

“That sounds better than saying that I refuse to die.”

His brows pull together atop his sunglasses. “What’s that mean?”

The sun is warm on my face as I watch the greenery slide past my window.

I’ve already said more to him than I usually tell people—and verbalized it in a more genuine way, to boot.

For some reason, I don’t feel the squish of my stomach, warning me to stop talking, though.

It’s probably because I don’t care what he thinks of me.

It’s actually nice just talking without hyperfocusing on every single word leaving my lips.

“I mean that I moved out of my father’s house at seventeen,” I say, sagging into the seat. “Found a studio apartment that I could afford in the Pliny Building and finished the last couple of months of high school.”

“Your dad let you move out at seventeen?”

“ Let me is a creative way to say it. Hey,” I say, sitting up, “is that a covered bridge?”

I lean forward as we approach the red structure with a black roof. It’s wide enough for two lanes of traffic to pass each other and not much more. Beneath the bridge is a slow-moving creek bubbling and meandering through the landscape.

“Yeah,” Gray says, slowing the truck. “Welcome to Sugar Creek.”

The tires rumble across the wooden boards of the bridge as we travel over it, the sound echoing, bouncing off the graffiti-stained walls on either side. Black birds line the rafters and watch us like little silent inspectors deciding whether we’re worthy to visit the town or not.

“This is like a movie,” I say, squinting against the sun as we pull out of the tunnel.

“Or a book for those of us with imaginations.”

I smack his shoulder playfully. He chuckles, his dimples dotting his cheeks. Those little dents trigger a wave of warmth throughout my body, and I look away before he can see the heat in my face.

We pull into the village with neat homes and manicured lawns spaced out perfectly from one another. Some of them have white fences, others have window boxes filled with beautiful flowers. Nearly every house that we pass has a porch swing, and all of them are adorable.

Gray rolls down our windows, stretching his arm out of his to wave at a middle-aged woman sweeping the sidewalk. The fresh air filling the cab is sweetly scented. It’s a balm to my perpetually overstimulated nervous system.

“That was Amanda LaRoche,” Gray says, pulling his arm back inside the truck.

“I went to school with her daughter.” He points at a small brick building with black shutters.

“That’s Doc Buckley’s office. He’s delivered most of the people in Sugar County at this point.

He used to come to the elementary school every winter dressed up like Santa Claus.

” Gray starts laughing, looking at me with a sparkle in his eye.

“My buddy, Brooks, ended that when we were in fifth grade. He fished his keys out of his pocket. Then when the staff was looking for them later, he held them up and said, ‘I found these, but they can’t be Santa’s because they have a tag on it for Doc’s office. ’”

“What a little shit,” I say, laughing, too.

He turns the truck down a road to our right, and I can’t help but notice how relaxed Gray seems. The pinch that usually lives between his eyes has magically disappeared, and the muscle connecting his neck to his shoulders isn’t flexed.

His lips press together as if he’s holding back a grin.

He’s less devil, more devilishly handsome.

I can’t decide whether I like it or hate it.

“What is that ?” I scoot to the edge of my seat and try to focus on a blur racing from the post office to the fire department. “Is that …” I narrow my eyes. “A cat with three legs?”

“Yup. That’s Blooper. He had an unfortunate accident with Biscuit Jones’s lawnmower probably twenty or thirty years ago.”

“Um, I don’t think cats live that long.”

“Maybe not average cats, but Blooper isn’t average.”

“Oh, of course not,” I say, giggling.

“I mean it.” He stops at a sign and then turns left. “Half of the houses in Sugar Creek have a cat house outside for him in case he stays the night. Everyone keeps food and water out for the little guy. When the weather is bad, he holes up with the firefighters.”

“Why doesn’t someone just take him in?”

“Someone tried once upon a time, but legend has it that Blooper fought a ghost, tore down all the family’s curtains, and pissed on everything they owned. No one else has been ballsy enough to try to capture him again.”

I huff. “I’d try it, the poor thing.”

“You would, huh?” He smiles. “I’d like to see that. One feral animal against the other.”

“You’re such a jackass,” I say, turning away so he doesn’t see my grin.

Gray slows the truck and stops at another sign.

It’s more of a roll-stop since no one else is around, and we turn onto a street on a slight slope.

Hanging baskets hold flowers cascading down the streetlamps with whiskey barrels sitting below.

There’s a flower shop, Piper’s Pizza, and a small building on the end with a sign reading Brew Ha Ha.

“Is that a coffee shop?” I ask, laughing.

“Cheesy, huh?”

“No way. It’s clever.”

“Whatever you say,” Gray says.

He stops the truck in the middle of the road and throws it in reverse. His arm extends along the back of my seat with his large hand gripping my headrest. My heart thunders in my chest as he glances casually over his shoulder and pilots the truck perfectly into the center of a spot.

Damn .

“We’re here,” he says, fishing his wallet and keys out of the console.

I clear my throat and gather my things while shoving away the photographs my brain snapped of Gray only moments ago. The competence. The confidence. His body language screams that he knows what he’s doing, and he’s damn good at it.

I’m really losing my effing mind.

Clutching my purse, I hop out of the truck without breaking my neck. Gray meets me on the sidewalk but avoids eye contact by dipping his head to slide a black hat low on his forehead. “Ready?” he asks.

I pat my purse. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Gray leads me to an oversized window with green-and-gold sign lettering on the glass. Jewell Law . He opens the door and waits for me to enter first.

The room is straight out of another era—green carpet, a standing ashtray, and a giant framed map of Sugar County that I’m sure was once white and not faded yellow. There’s a desk in the center, but no one’s staffing it.

“Hey, Joe,” Gray calls out.

“Come on back.”

Gray’s hand brushes against the small of my back as he guides me forward, and the contact catches me off guard.

The heat of his touch in such a vulnerable, intimate spot has me shivering.

My instinct is to pull away and distance myself from him, but I appreciate knowing Gray’s there as I walk into the unknown. I can’t believe I just thought that.

“Betty’s working at the mayor’s office today,” a man I presume is Joe says behind a dark wooden desk as we round the corner.

He’s older than I imagined—probably in his late sixties, early seventies—and has shiny black hair that’s slicked back.

The mole on his chin somehow softens his otherwise severe persona.

He smirks at Gray. “Didn’t know I was gonna get to see your ugly face, too. ”

“Consider it a bonus.” Gray laughs. “Joe, this is Astrid Lawsen. Astrid, this is Joe Jewell.” He leans over and whispers loud enough for Joe to hear. “He looks like a dipshit, but he’s a pretty damn good lawyer.”

“Yeah, well, that’s better than being a pretty-boy dipshit,” Joe cracks back, his big belly vibrating with his chuckle. He turns his attention to me. “You’re too pretty for this guy.”

“Oh,” I say, my cheeks flushing. “We’re not together. Not like that.”

Gray shifts at my side.

Joe holds out a hand. “What do you have for me?”

“I brought the letter with me,” I say, digging in my purse and handing it over to the attorney. My palms are damp, and I glance at the envelope, hoping there’s no sweat stains on the paper.

“Hey, Gray,” Joe says, opening the envelope. “My lunch is ready at Piper’s. Will you go get it for me?”