Page 12 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)

MESA

The next day, bright morning rays glare through the windshield as I head east with a bickering trio of opinionated music lovers in tow. The apples of my cheeks brush the bottom of my sunglasses as I smile over their failed attempts to negotiate.

“I’m done fighting with y’all about it,” Tripp huffs. “You got a preference, driver?”

“No,” I respond. “I can listen to anything, really. I’m polyjamorous.”

“Holy shit.” He squeezes his eyes shut with a deep chuckle. “That’s hilarious. And same.”

“Rock, paper, scissors,” Savannah suggests from the back seat.

Blythe turns and starts right in on the immature, but effective, game that will decide whose playlist gets the aux.

Since hanging around the whole group last night, I’ve already grown accustomed to their lively vibe around each other.

They’re comfortable, and I sense a deep trust and unique brand of real understanding between them all.

They haven’t given me a single break from cracking up over their squabbling, either.

I rub my freshly glossed lips together and take several glances toward the passenger seat.

Tripp is in light-wash jeans. His flat bill cap is decked out in school colors, and an old Cougs jersey covers his torso.

Circa 2000, if I had to guess. I’ve seen one just like it that was gifted to my mom from the coaching staff around that era.

“Should I have sent you a fit check before we left or do you approve?”

Caught red-handed.

I swipe the grown-out bangs from my most likely blushing face and purse my lips. “No, it’s a solid getup. The chain’s a little slutty, though.”

I expect him to scoff and defend himself, but he props his elbow on the center console and turns in his seat to face me with a smirk instead. “I can take it off if it’s too much for you to handle.”

“No need,” I assure him with an amused huff. Although, it’s not a bad idea. I’d rather not drool over a thin chain of glinting gold against his tan neck until he comes at me with a classic eyes up here, babe. “Not my cup of tea.”

That’s a lie, of course. I was a certified cleat chaser in my heyday. I’d have folded in seconds for a chance to have a chain like that dangling above me.

“Lose the chain.” He nods sarcastically. “Noted. While I’m at it, I’ll switch hats and go with a pearl snap shirt next time.”

That , I could handle without having to cross my legs. I think.

“Whatever blows your dress up,” I reply with an eye roll. That makes him smile, and I let out an easy laugh. “So, next time . . . like we’re going to be doing this again? Bold assumption.”

I flip the blinker just before we take the last turn out of Westridge. The stretch of dirt roads between this small town and the highway is lined with lush green grass and miles of untouched beauty. It’s refreshing, and I’m reminded of why I chose to live here each time I take this drive.

Tripp parts his lips with a reply on the tip of his tongue, but he’s cut off by back seat bickering.

“Okay, wait . Five out of seven,” Blythe says desperately.

I peek at the girls in the rearview mirror. Savannah shakes her head of perfectly blown-out brunette curls while scrolling on her phone.

“Not a chance. You lost, and we’re going to get real familiar with Ariana for the next hour and a half.”

She holds her phone out, and Tripp takes it to plug it in. My car is far from modern, but I like it that way. No Bluetooth or Apple CarPlay sucks until I remember I have no car payment.

Rusty Rose, my little red bug since I was sixteen, gets along just fine. You’d never guess from the recent paint job and detail that she’s a ’97. I take impeccable care of her, and a little aux cord never hurt anybody.

“I can handle Ariana. It could be worse,” Blythe sighs with a dramatic slump. “Tripp’s grunge is positively depressing.”

“Facts,” Tripp jokes without looking up from Savannah’s phone screen.

“Oh, thanks for letting us tag along, by the way,” Blythe says to me.

She reaches her hand to the front seat and lightly scratches my forearm with her short pink nails as a gesture of appreciation. She’s a tough cookie, don’t get me wrong. But she balances it all out with a kind disposition, and I like her authenticity a lot.

I shrug with a smile. “Anytime, girl. I’m not with you on the grunge slander, though. I got my first speeding ticket going eighty-five while blasting ‘Man in the Box.’”

The girls burst into laughter, and I catch Tripp’s approving grin out of the corner of my eye.

“Seems like you’re locked into the group now,” he points out. “So yeah, I think we’ll be doing this again.”

That creates a comforting warmth under my skin. Making friends was never much of a struggle for me growing up. Socializing or going on side quests with a group of pals like the one we’re on right now was a common occurrence.

That natural element of camaraderie faded as I grew older. I regret not fostering those genuine friendships because I was too focused on keeping the undivided attention of whichever loser boyfriend I had in my pocket at the time.

I’d hang on to a man for dear life, by my fingertips if I had to, even if it meant putting other people in my life on the backburner. Look where that’s got me—nearly thirty and smack dab in the middle of a single life that younger me was deathly afraid of.

Bitter, lonely cat lady nightmares used to be a weekly occurrence. The fear was real.

I don’t care so much about that anymore. If I end up single, so be it. I’ve learned my lesson, and my romantic reform is in full swing. I’m all for weekends like this instead of wasted days with a commitment-phobe man-child.

After picking up the hat I store in the side pocket of my door, I balance the top of my knee on the bottom of the steering wheel.

It’s a dangerous habit to drive like this, I’m aware.

But the mess of hair on my head is going to send me into an overstimulated spiral if I can’t throw it up before we get to the highway.

I swore I’d wear it down after meticulously styling it this morning, but that intention never fails to fall through approximately two hours into a hot West Texas day.

As I gather the unruly strands to the back of my head, Tripp instinctively leans over to take control of the wheel.

He smells like an energizing mix of fresh air and clean minty soap.

I work to ignore his tatted forearm invading my space, focusing instead on fixing my hair and the music streaming softly through the speakers.

“Thanks,” I say, tightening my ponytail and pulling it through the back of my ball cap. “Insert women are bad drivers joke here.”

He huffs a laugh and settles back in his seat as I retake the wheel.

I wait for him to respond with one of his laugh-inducing one-liners, but his eyes linger on my side profile for a moment before he turns to look out the window, letting the quiet continue.

With Blythe and Savannah both preoccupied by something on their phones now, the front of the car feels more like a secluded chamber of tension.

After a beat of awkward silence, I decide to lift my arms above my head and lean back until I’m looking at the roof of the car. It pulls Tripp’s attention immediately, and sweet satisfaction settles in my smile.

“ Jesus .” He jumps to retake the wheel while I pretend to yawn and stretch. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Better a little cuckoo than utterly boring, I always say.”

Our light laughter blends together in contagious delight, replacing the once uncomfortable silence. He’s still leaning over the center console to get a better grip on the wheel with his left hand. I reopen my eyes to see his expression that accompanies his new, freer sound of amusement.

It’s puzzling. He wears a smile, but seems to be thinking deeply at the same time. Maybe he’s secretly annoyed by my antics. His crooked grin suggests otherwise, though.

A breeze blows in through the open driver’s side window, and I extend an arm out to weave it through the crisp spring air.

Having just met him, it’s challenging to guess what he’s thinking. I shouldn’t be so curious after being around him for such a short amount of time. And yet, like the birth of a new addiction, the urge to master the interpretation of his many tells plants roots in my brain.

Tripp doesn’t complain about me taking my time to steer the car myself again. I let him keep us steady on the road while gusts of country air fill my lungs.

Once I sit up straight and return my hands to their rightful place, he sits fully back in his seat. To avoid another patch of silence, I absentmindedly sing along to Savannah’s playlist.

“You’re butchering this song,” he mumbles, straight-faced. “Like—violently.”

“Wow. I thought this was a safe space.”

“It was.” He shakes his head. “Until you declared war on carrying a simple tune.”

“Okay, rude.”

“Where’s the lie, though?”

“Enough,” I demand with a giggle, knowing he’s spot-on.

I watch the road between stolen looks in his direction. He barely lifts the corner of his mouth, but I sense a flipped switch. My suspicion is confirmed when he crosses his arms.

“Can I ask you something?”

“If it’s about my lack of vocal talent, I swear to god?—”

“No,” he chuckles. “I’m being serious. Kinda.”

“Oh. I—yeah. Of course.”

I roll up my window and then flick my eyes to the rearview mirror. Savannah is leaning back with her eyes closed, and Blythe is taking a phone call in a hushed voice. Both oblivious. Tripp clears his throat and drums his fingers.

“Were you just playing hard to get last night?”

Realizing he wants to know if he should give up hitting on me shouldn’t thrill me the way it does. He’s still thinking about it a day later, and a giddy shiver tickles up my spine.

His body language and tone of voice add a deeper layer to his question, though. Maybe it’s more than a self-serving inquiry. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s been reading my cues during this car ride, and so far, can’t figure them out like he wants to.