Page 13 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)

“Maybe a little,” I admit. I’ve never played hard to get in my life before Tripp asked for my number.

He made me smile, and my skin was tingling all over when he kept going despite me softly turning him down.

It still is. Sticking to my guns felt empowering and strangely disappointing at the same time.

My voice softens so that it doesn’t easily carry through the entire car. “But I guess the truth?—”

Stopping myself short, I close my lips in a sheepish smile. He doesn’t need a full rundown.

I know all too well what disinterest looks and feels like after saying too much, and it’s not enjoyable in the least. I don’t want to come off like I’m starved for conversations where I can either stand up for myself or lay my insecurities on the line without being judged.

Sensing my hesitation, Tripp crosses his arms, tilts his head, and patiently waits for me to continue instead of giving me an out.

We have nothing better to do on this drive, and the oddly comfortable air between us convinces me to spill more details to him.

“Okay,” I start, abandoning my reluctance in favor of full disclosure for a change.

“My track record with guys is just plain embarrassing. I’m clingy.

Or . . . maybe too easy to win over. Something like that.

I kind of promised myself I wouldn’t hook up with anyone for a while so I can focus on other stuff and gain some resolve. ”

It’s a pathetic predicament for a grown woman to find herself in, let alone admit out loud. He doesn’t immediately laugh though, so I relax a little.

“It’s okay if you want to make fun of me for vowing against romantic entanglements like a scorned divorcée,” I add to keep the mood light.

Tripp’s new grin is lopsided, and he lightly puffs air through his nose. “I’ll come up with a way to give you shit for it eventually.”

“I look forward to it.” I laugh right along with him, light and easy. My left leg bends, resting against the driver’s side door, and I lean back on the seat’s headrest.

“You wanna be friends instead?” he asks.

The car accelerates as we take the on-ramp to the highway that leads to the city.

My eyes stay intensely glued to the road, and my palms run the length of the shiny leather steering wheel until we’re merged with traffic.

I’d hoped something intelligent would come out when my mouth finally opened again. No such luck.

“. . . What?”

“Friends,” he repeats with a shrug. “I came on strong last night, but I get where your head’s at. My head says we should be friends.”

“Your head with a brain?”

He chuckles, unfolding one of his arms to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah. That one.”

Should I be offended or relieved? Unfortunately, I’m neither. I’m certifiably sick and twisted because a teeny tiny part of me wanted his head to tell him to be obsessed and pine after me within an inch of his life until he finally wears me down.

Every hopeless romantic’s dream.

God, I’m a lost cause.

I bite my lip while trying to nail down his true motive. It’s unfair for me to rely on hearsay, but I’m venturing to guess that needy girls who fall too fast and easy are a major turn-off for him. Girls like me. Maybe asking for friendship as an alternative makes sense, coming from Tripp.

“I actually want to hang out again,” he adds, reading my thoughts. “I’m not just throwing a random idea out there for shits and giggles, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Friendship as a consolation prize for not letting you dick me down would be crazy work.”

“Hooking up,” he quickly corrects with a raised brow, as if it’s a better descriptor. Maybe it is, but I don’t think sex with Tripp would be anything less than vulgar. Might as well call it like it is.

“But no,” he continues with a lowered voice. “It’s not a consolation prize. More like a passed note in middle school,” he jokes. “ Do you want to start hanging out and argue over baseball or how you think the memes I send you aren’t funny? Check yes or no .”

He can’t go longer than five minutes without making my chest rumble with laughter. If I take that as a sign, my answer should come easily.

Tripp sneaks a quick glance to the back seat, then shifts his focus back to me, waiting for a response. What’s devastating is that some other girl is going to end up getting railed between his sheets until she screams instead of me. Lucky bitch.

And yet, as a woman trying to turn the page on her failed attempts at love, I know that Tripp and I work better this way. When it comes to the bunkhouse’s resident ladies’ man, I have no business getting caught up in wild fantasies about being the subject of his next conquest.

I like him. Other than our single shared interest and a handful of connected, witty moments, I’m not exactly sure why yet. It feels weird to acknowledge, but I’m drawn to him. It’s like my soul knows something that my conscious mind has yet to figure out.

Mind made up, I nod confidently.

“Alright, I’m in. Friend zone it is.”

He snorts and lifts his hips to adjust his jeans before settling back in his seat.

Blythe’s voice increases in volume as she debates over the phone with someone about a makeshift altar.

I’m glad for it, because I suspect she’d be giving me hell about our exchange as soon as Tripp isn’t within earshot. All in good fun, of course.

Still, I don’t want any rifts among us. Tripp was on to something when he said I’m locked into the friend group.

I like that idea and want to lean into it instead of putting it on the chopping block.

Their whole group gives me a warm feeling—one I want to hold onto.

With as many let downs as I’ve experienced lately, I want this one good thing to stick.

“This is good, actually,” I say with a sigh.

“Yeah?”

I nod. “I’m in over my head with work on the app while trying to walk the straight and narrow with guys right now, anyway. I’m glad you brought it up.”

“App?”

“Long story.”

“Long drive,” he counters, crossing his arms again and lifting his eyebrows like he’s all ears.

“Okay,” I snicker. “I’ll fill you in. But you have to start giving me some insight on your side of things, too.

It only seems fair. If we’re going to be friends, we both get to bitch about our jobs.

Or juicier stuff—like you being an insatiable menace with a little black book the size of an encyclopedia.

You’re basically a tourist attraction, from what I hear. ”

“Are you slut shaming me?”

I smirk. “Respectfully.”

“Hey, I bring thrill and entertainment to this town. I’m a walking public service.”

“Ah, yes. A nonprofit disaster.”

“If I were so bad, I’d have already dumped these two chatty nitwits at the nearest hair salon and booked us an hourly hotel room. I’m being good. Pretty damn noble of me, honestly.”

“Truly.”

I fiddle with the volume knob just to keep my hands busy. Tripp’s tone is far from offended by my stabbing jokes. Good. Because if we’re going to be real friends, I will continue roasting the shit out of him and expect nothing less in return.

“Hit the next gas station. I need a slushie,” he suggests while flicking the black ice air freshener hanging above the radio. He turns his hat backward. “This ain’t doing much, by the way. Your car still smells like pot. Best hack is coffee grounds.”

His eyes narrow mischievously, and my ridiculously broad smile must look cartoonish.

I laugh through my nose while picturing Tripp and I hotboxing ole Rusty Rose like a couple of teenagers with nowhere else to get high but a car.

The lingering smell is actually from my nana, to be completely honest. She doesn’t fuck around when it comes to her medical-grade ganja.

“I’ll get right on that, buddy.”

“Buddy,” he repeats. “See? Feels right.”

Does it? For the life of me, I can’t decide if I agree or not. The energy feels formal and new. At the same time, it’s pleasant and exciting.

A friendly bond with someone that handsome is no big deal. This sort of thing happens all the time for people with a good head on their shoulders. I’m assuming.

The idea of it makes me damn proud of myself. There’s no telling the pity party I’d have thrown if a brand-new crush had suggested a strictly non-romantic relationship in the past.

Based on the way his eyebrows are lifted right along with the curve of his mouth, I think Tripp and I are off to a good start. The pressure is off. We can just be who we are.

I slow our speed enough to get out of the passing lane.

Savannah lets out an excessive yawn and wiggles her way to the front so that her forearms rest on the center console. “What are y’all talking about up here?”

She squeals as Tripp palms the top of her head and gently pushes her back. “Put your seatbelt on.”