Charlie thanks him, but Shepherd’s facing me now, his smile widening. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Nora from New York,” he says. “Told you we’d run into each other again.”
I read once that sunflowers always orient themselves to face the sun. That’s what being near Charlie Lastra is like for me. There could be a raging wildfire racing toward me from the west and I’d still be straining eastward toward his warmth.
So despite being eighty percent sure Shepherd’s flirting with me, of course I look straight toward Charlie. Or rather, to the shop door swinging closed behind him.
“Hey,” Shepherd says. “Any chance you’re free right now? I could give you that tour we talked about?”
“Um.” I check my phone, but there are still no new messages from Libby. For a beat, anxiety swells on every side of me, a hundred fists banging on the doors of my mind, demanding to run loose. I shove my phone back into my bag. Focus on something you can control. The list. Number five.
Resisting the urge to glance back at the shop window, I meet Shepherd’s eyes, smile, and lie through my teeth: “A tour sounds perfect.”
* * *
We drive with the windows down, the smells of pine and sweat and sunbaked dirt braided into the wind. I’ve never seen anything quite like the Blue Ridge Parkway, the way its easy curves are sliced into the side of the mountains so that shaggy treetops tower over us on one side and unfurl beneath us on the other. Shepherd’s a rare sight too. He has the kind of forearms that authors could spend full pages on, thick with muscle and dusted with fine golden-blond hair. He hums along to the country song on the radio, fingers drumming on the steering wheel and the clutch.
After the initial thrill of doing something spontaneous, the nerves set in. It’s been a long time since I’ve been out with an unvetted man. Setting aside the possibility that he’s a rapist, murderer, or cannibal, I also just don’t know how to talk to a man I know nothing about and am not considering as a long-term partner.
You can do this, Nora. You’re not Nadine to him. You can be anyone. Just say something.
He finally puts me out of my misery: “So, Nora, what you do?”
“I work in publishing,” I say. “I’m a literary agent.”
“No kidding!” His green eyes flash from the road to me. “So you already knew Charlie, before your visit?”
My stomach drops, then surges upward in my chest. “Not really,” I say noncommittally.
Shepherd laughs, a clear, booming sound. “Uh-oh. I know that look—don’t judge the rest of us based on him.”
I feel a swell of protectiveness—or maybe it’s empathy, an understanding that this might be how people talk about me. Simultaneously though, I’m annoyed that I literally got into a stranger’s car like it was a deep-space escape pod, and somehow the specter of Charlie is still here.
“He’s not as bad as he seems,” Shepherd goes on. “I mean, coming back here to help Sal and Clint, when pretty much all he ever wanted was to get away from . . .” He waves his hand in a sweeping arc, gesturing toward the sun-dappled road ahead of us. He turns up a side street that winds further up the foothill we’ve been climbing.
“So what do you do?” I say.
“I’m in construction,” he says. “And I do some carpentry on the side, when I have time.”
“Of course you do,” I accidentally say aloud.
“What’s that?” he asks, eyes twinkling like well-lit emeralds.
“I just mean, you look like a carpenter.”
“Oh.”
I explain, “Carpenters are famously handsome.”
His brow crinkles as he grins. “Are they?”
“I mean, carpenters are the love interests in a lot of books and movies. It’s a common trope. It’s how you show someone’s down-to-earth and patient, and hot without being shallow.”
He laughs. “That doesn’t sound too bad, I guess.”
“Sorry, it’s been awhile since I’ve been . . .” I stop short of saying on a date—which this is definitely not—and finish with the far more tragic “anywhere.”
He grins, like it hasn’t even occurred to him that I might have recently escaped a doomsday hatch in the ground after years of little to no socialization. “Well then, Nora from New York, I know exactly where I’m taking you.”
* * *
I’m not much of a gasper—dramatic, audible reactions are more Libby’s terrain—but when I climb out of the truck, I can’t help it.