WINNIE #2
I looked at him—the determined set of his jaw, the way his hands gripped the wheel like he was preparing for war. It was endearing. Stupid, but endearing.
"Fine," I sighed. "Left foot on the clutch—that’s the pedal on the far left. Push it all the way in."
"Okay."
"Key in the ignition. Turn it."
The engine roared to life, that familiar, throaty rumble that I loved.
"Okay," Beau said, sounding confident. "Now what?"
"Keep the clutch in. Move the stick to first—up and to the left. No, further left—there."
He got it into gear. "Easy."
"Now," I said, bracing my hand against the dashboard, "slowly let off the clutch while you give it a little gas. Slowly, Beau. You have to find the bite point."
"I got it, I got it. Smooth is my middle na—"
The truck lurched forward violently, bucked like a bronco coming out of the chute, and died with a heart-breaking clunk.
My head snapped forward, then back against the headrest.
"Smooth," I deadpanned.
"Shut up," he muttered, face flushing even in the dark. "My foot slipped."
"Restart it. Try again. Less gas, more patience."
It took three tries. Three tries of whiplash-inducing lurches, the engine stalling out, and Beau cursing creatively under his breath. But finally, on the fourth attempt, we managed a jerky, terrifying lurch onto the main road.
"We’re moving!" he announced, knuckles white on the wheel. "I’m doing it!"
"You’re in first gear doing twenty miles an hour. You need to shift to second."
"Absolutely not. We are staying in first. First is safe. First is my friend."
" The engine is screaming, Beau. Shift."
"If I shift, we’ll stall and die."
"If you don't shift, the engine will explode and we’ll die. Clutch in, stick down to second, clutch out. Do it."
He did it. It wasn't pretty—we jerked forward hard enough that my seatbelt locked—but he got it into second.
"I hate this truck," he said through gritted teeth. "Why do you drive this? It’s manual labor just to get to the grocery store."
"It keeps me awake," I said, watching him concentrate. His brow was furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. It was nice, actually, seeing him flustered. It made him seem less like the polished heir and more like... just a guy trying to impress a girl.
We drove in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the high-revving engine because Beau refused to shift into third. The tension from the bar—the Tyler situation—was still hanging in the air, heavy and unresolved.
"I'm sorry," he said finally, his eyes glued to the road like he was landing a fighter jet. "About the Tyler thing. That was... stupid."
"Yeah, it was." I stared out the window at the dark fields rolling by. "You don't need to go all alpha male on me. Tyler's harmless."
"It's just... you looked really good tonight. And every guy in that bar noticed. Including him." He risked a glance at the gear shift, debating third gear, then decided against it. "And I didn't like the way he was looking at you."
"How was he looking at me?" I asked, more curious than annoyed now.
"Like he missed his chance." He shrugged, which caused the truck to swerve slightly. He corrected immediately. "Or something. Like he knew he messed up."
I snorted. "Tyler's a flirt with everyone. It's his default setting. Doesn't mean anything."
"Still didn't like it."
"Well, tough. I'm not your concern."
The words came out sharper than I meant, but I didn't take them back.
Four days. That's all it had been. He was still the scrawny kid who'd trailed after me like a lost puppy twelve years ago.
Sure, he'd filled out, and yeah, watching him struggle with a gear shift was weirdly charming, but that didn't change facts. He was temporary. A summer project.
His daddy wanted us to shape him, take some of the city off him, and that was all I was going to do.
He was quiet for a beat, focusing on a gentle curve in the road. "Fair enough. Message received."
"Good."
When we pulled up to the ranch, the house was dark except for the porch light Pops always left on.
"Okay," Beau said, exhaling a breath as the ranch gate came into view. "Stopping. Stopping is just the reverse of starting, right?"
"Clutch in, brake," I instructed. "Don't stall it now, we're ten feet from the finish line."
He managed to bring us to a halt that was only mildly jarring. He turned the key, killing the engine, and slumped back in the seat. "I need a drink. A strong one. I have aged ten years in twenty minutes."
I laughed. "You did okay. For a city boy."
"I’m never driving this deathtrap again. I’ll walk to town."
We got out, the night air cool against my skin. Beau looked a little unsteady—probably the adrenaline crash combined with the whiskey.
"Want to walk?" I asked, surprising myself. The alcohol was making me chatty, and I wasn't quite ready to go inside yet. "Just for a bit. Clear the head before bed."
"As long as walking doesn't involve a clutch pedal, I’m in."
We headed toward the barn, our boots crunching on the gravel path. Above us, the sky opened up like it always did out here—no city lights to drown it out. Stars everywhere, thick and bright, like someone had spilled diamonds across black velvet.
"Holy shit," Beau breathed, stopping to tilt his head back. "I forgot how many stars there are out here."
"City life makes you forget a lot of things," I said, glancing up too. "Too much glow from all those skyscrapers and billboards. You can't see the big picture when you're surrounded by neon."
"Yeah. It does." He sounded almost wistful. He looked at me then, the moonlight catching the sharp angle of his jaw. "Tonight was fun. The trivia part. Not the near-death driving experience."
"You realize you were just at a dive bar yelling about tomatoes, right?" I teased, bumping his shoulder lightly with mine. "Not exactly the velvet ropes and bottle service you're used to in Dallas."
"Exactly." He stopped by the fence near the pasture, leaning against it. "That's why it was good. No posing for cameras, no networking bullshit. Just... people being real. Laughing because something's actually funny. Trivia turning into a full-on war with those Henderson brothers? That was gold."
I laughed, the sound echoing a little in the quiet night. "They're assholes, but yeah. Beating them felt good. Don't get too cocky, though—they'll come for revenge next week."
"Wouldn't miss it." He grinned at me, that easy smile that was starting to feel less like the kid from my memories and more like... well, just Beau.
We stood there a minute longer, the silence stretching between us. It wasn't awkward anymore. It felt heavy, but in a good way. Like the air before a storm.
"Come on," I said finally, pushing off the fence. "Pops'll skin us alive if we're dragging ass tomorrow. Early chores wait for no one."
"Yes, ma'am." He fell into step beside me.
As we walked back to the house, I let my mind wander a bit. Beau was fitting in better than I'd expected. The town liked him now, thanks to his open-bar stunt. He’d survived the truck. He was trying.
But he was still the Dallas boy. Still leaving come fall. Still the kid who'd vanished twelve years ago without a backward glance.
We reached the porch, and he paused at the door. "Night, Winnie. Thanks for letting me tag along. And for the driving lesson. Even if it was terrifying."
"Night, Sterling." I flashed him a quick smile. "Don't let Pickles eat your hat in your sleep."
He chuckled, shaking his head as he headed inside. I lingered on the porch a second longer, tilting my face up to catch one last look at the stars before the house lights swallowed them up.
The weird warmth in my chest? Just the tequila talking. Had to be.
I slipped inside, kicked off my boots by the door, and trudged up to my room. Bed was calling, and tomorrow was another day of mucking stalls and dealing with whatever fresh complaints Beau had about his blisters.
Temporary. That's all he was.
I fell asleep to the sound of crickets outside my window, dreaming of nothing in particular. Or at least, that's what I'd tell myself in the morning.