“You will be the professional journalist you were trained to be today, Natalie Butler,” I command as the doors open. Determined to take charge of the situation—despite my consistent deterioration in simple, everyday functioning—I find myself rattling in anticipation for the roar of Easton’s truck motor just before it sounds and he appears.
Sliding onto the seat, I slam the door and turn to greet him with a low “Hi,” before I’m hit by the sight of him. His clean scent circulates through the cabin as I drink him in.
His presentation today—fucking edible. He’s got a solid black hat on, the bill of it turned backward, covering his damp onyx hair, its ends curling naturally around his ears. He’s dressed from head to toe in black—a thermal layered with a V-neck jersey, jeans, and high-top Vans. His lips lift in greeting, a low “Hey,” in reply to mine as he puts the truck into gear, a frown pulling at his features as he weighs my expression. “You okay?”
It’s then I feel the surge of threatening emotion as guilt consumes me.
“I don’t have a favorite song, and I work too fucking much,” I admit, blowing all redeeming expectations I demanded of myself within seconds.
He laughs, full-on laughs at me, as I avert my gaze and buckle in. I feel his eyes on me as I battle to keep my guilty tears in, my confessions threatening to roll off my tongue.
Easton puts the truck back into park, and grips my chin gently, turning my head, his eyes lingering on the circles beneath.
“Is that what kept you up all night?”
“It’s part of it,” I admit. “I don’t know if I’ll be very good company today.”
“That’s assuming you’re capable of improving it?”
I narrow my eyes as he lets out another infuriating chuckle. Releasing his grip on me, he leans forward and peers through his windshield at the clear blue sky. “Pretty sure it isn’t going to fall today, so you’re okay.” He glances over at me. “Trust me?”
I nod because I’m too close to letting my emotions overrule me, and the only thing I’m sure of is that I don’t want to cut our time short, so I rein it in.
“I’ve got you, Natalie,” he assures softly before gassing the truck. A minute later, a light melody drifts through the speakers, the lyrics wrapping around my heart in solace. Even as he keeps his eyes on the road, I feel his gentle, soothing caress from feet away.
Feel Like Making Love
Bad Company
Natalie
“Oh my Glod, Easthon,” I mumble around a mouthful of succulent white crab, butter dripping down my chin as my eyes roll up in pleasure.
His lips tilt up in amusement. “Yeah? We loving it so much we’re calling out to a higher power?”
“Hell yes, thank you, and you,” I chime happily to our waitress when she delivers another half-pound of snow crab tableside. She and Easton exchange a conspiratorial grin, both entertained by my enthusiasm as I use my butter-coated hands to lift my dark beer, greedily gulping back the cold suds before blotting my face briefly without much care.
Clearly, I’m at the no-fucks-given stage of my almost quarter-life crisis.
But as the beer eases the sting and the crab goes down, I find myself gradually lifting out of my weeklong funk, thankful for the reprieve—even if it turns out to be short-lived.
The mouthwatering company chuckling across from me—delighting in the utter ass I’m making of myself—hasn’t hurt either.
After a long, long drive filled with music, Easton decided to draw an end to my pity party by luring me into conversation. Not long after, he insisted we eat at The Crab Pot, which sits on Miner’s Pier perched on the edge of Puget Sound.
Due to the lunch rush being over, we managed to secure a table on the enclosed porch, spaced away from others with a waterside view. With Easton’s back facing away from prying eyes, he’s hardly recognizable to most.
So far, we’ve managed to escape the paparazzi, but I can’t help feeling that our luck may run out the longer we linger in public. Even though he’s been out of the public eye for some time because of the Sergeants’ gradual withdrawal from the spotlight, he’s still newsworthy—especially if sighted with a female who happens to be stuffing her face with shellfish.
Right now, I can’t bring myself to care as I inhale the bounty before me.
“Do they feed you in Texas?” Easton taunts.
“I feed myself,” I quip back emphatically, using my mallet to smash into a claw.
“But no seafood?”