21. Nate
Nate
The nerves are completely unwarranted. Hell, I don’t know where they’re coming from at all.
It has nothing to do with my upcoming date. I’m not sure I’d even call whatever this is a date at all, were it not for the auction.
No matter what the word for my upcoming appointment with Marge, I’m feeling unsettled.
I blow out a breath and look down at Ollie, curled up at my feet in front of the couch. “What do you think, Ollie? Is it the date that’s making me nervous?”
He lifts his head and tilts it to one side.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so, either.”
I stroke his ears, trying to figure out where this is coming from. It’s not even nerves, exactly. More like a sense that something is off.
It’s not today’s date or whatever we’re calling it, that’s for sure.
Work is good. Things with Rory are amazing.
The pageant? I don’t think it’s that, either. It took a while to come up with a good idea for the talent portion, but I think I’ve got something. Kind of.
I glance at the side table where my camera sits, finally out of storage after a few years too long. I took a class on photography in high school. I even had a makeshift darkroom in the basement for a year or so, trays of developer taking over Mom’s toilet paper stockpile.
It’s been a while since I took any photos, but I figure it’ll come back to me. Like riding a bike or something.
Or maybe, with any luck, it’s one of those things where a few years away from a hobby magically makes you better at it. Because I need something amazing if I’m going to win this pageant.
Bragging rights are one thing. But if securing victory as Mr. Lonesome will make Rory and her family happy? I’ll stop at nothing to win.
“How are you feeling?” Rory asks, plopping down on the couch next to me. “Seriously, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want.”
I wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her close, then kiss the top of her head. “Hey, Marge won her date fair and square. Why, are you jealous?”
Rory snorts. “Of Marge? No.”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “Hey, this is just my first date with her. Maybe she’ll sweep me off my feet. Or me off hers.”
“Off her what?”
“Maybe I’ll be the one sweeping Marge off her feet. You never know.” My ability to continue this line of conversation with a straight face is waning.
Spam must sense that he’s missing out on something. He comes running over to the couch, then attempts to worm his way between Ollie and my legs.
Rory scoops him up and settles him on her lap. “Well, good luck to you and your new lady friend, I guess.”
“I feel like I should be offended or something. Shouldn’t you be jealous that I’m going on a date with another woman?”
“Not if it’s Marge.”
“Fair point.”
It is, and not because Marge is old. She isn’t even that old, really. I think just over sixty. Younger than my parents, for whatever that’s worth. But while Marge is closed-lipped about a lot of her past, the whole town knows about her husband.
They were high school sweethearts. Marge and…John? That sounds right.
He passed away when I was a kid. Ten years ago? Fifteen? Anyway, since he died, Marge has never shown any interest in remarrying. Whenever it comes up, the answer is the same: I already married the love of my life. Why would I look for something else?
Now that I have Rory, I get where she’s coming from.
Rory runs her palm along my thigh. Spam takes the movement as an invitation and half climbs, half hops from Rory’s lap to mine.
“Anyway,” Rory says, ignoring her dog’s change in loyalty, “I was talking about the pageant in general. If you don’t want to keep going, it’s up to you.”
I scratch Spam’s ears as he stretches happily. “It’s fine. Your dad wants a Kelley to win, so I’ll do my best.”
“Dad doesn’t care about winning. Really.”
Maybe Jim doesn’t. And maybe this whole thing started as a way to curry favor with my future father-in-law. But now I’m invested.
“I’ve got this, Rory. The whole pageant thing might be silly, but it means a lot to a lot of people. I’m going to do my best.”
She tilts her head, a smile tugging at one side of her lips. “That’s really sweet, Nate. I think he appreciates that. I do, too.”
And hell, when she looks at me like that, eyes bright with gratitude and a smile that stretches across her face, I feel like a knight in shining fucking armor. I’d do anything to keep her this happy.
“Hey, if it gets me that smile, then I’m happy to be part of this ridiculous tradition. I can’t guarantee a win, but I’ll do what I can. I hope you’ll still like me if I’m a runner-up.”
Rory smirks. “Hmm. I don’t know about that. What does the girl say in Cruel Intentions? ‘I don’t fuck losers’?”
Paired with her smile, the line doesn’t carry quite the same venom as the original.
“Careful, babe. I’m going to do my best, but you’d better believe I’ll be making love to my girl.” I capture her face between my hands and press a kiss to her lips. “Win or lose, Rory. You’re mine.”
When I pull back, Rory has a wide smile on her face, all hints of teasing gone as she meets my gaze.
I rub the pad of my thumb along her jawline, enjoying the way her pupils dilate at the touch.
She’s so fucking perfect. I’ve said it over and over, but I’d do anything for this woman. Hell, I signed up for a pageant for her, and now I’m about to go on a date with a woman old enough to be my mother. That alone should prove my loyalty.
And it’s not just Rory, either, although she’s the single most important person in my life. It’s her family, too.
Rory and her family are a package deal, and I want to win this pageant for Jim.
“You’ll crush them all,” she says, her eyes bright.
Her confidence in me is infectious.
“You know it, babe.” I kiss her forehead, then press a long kiss to her lips. “When will you be back from the barn tonight?”
Because hell, I need to take her to bed. It’s taking everything I have not to push her up against the wall and have my way with her right this second.
Rory shrugs, her delicate shoulder lifting and falling like she has no clue how that movement affects me.
“Probably by dinner time, if not earlier. I’m not sure there are a ton of lessons today, so I’m guessing it’ll just be chores and maybe exercising a few horses. Might even be earlier if the barn girls show up.”
“How do you know when they’re coming?” Because seriously, if these unreliable high schoolers come to the barn to help out, I’ll get my girl earlier.
Rory snorts with laughter. “They’re teenagers. They show up when they feel like it. It’s helpful, but I just assume they’re not coming until I hear otherwise. I can’t really say anything about it, either, since I was in their shoes not too long ago.”
Did my eyelid twitch?
Maybe.
I thrive on routine, predictability.
Rules.
It’s why I’m a cop: things are black and white. None of this show up when they feel like it.
But then, that’s why Rory and I work so well together. We’re two sides of the same coin. We complement one another.
I take a deep breath and let it out. “Fair enough. Send me a text when you’re on your way home. I’m going to stop by the station to finish up paperwork from my last shift after this thing with Marge, but otherwise, I don’t have much going on. What do you want for dinner?”
She raises her eyebrows. “Are you offering to cook?”
Her hesitation is warranted since my cooking skills are limited to frozen dinners, but I’m willing to learn. I’ve got to take care of my girl, after all.
For tonight, though, I’m leaning towards takeout.
“I can pick something up. I was thinking pizza.”
“Ooh, that sounds good.” Rory pulls on a sweatshirt, then offers me a kiss, smiling as she presses her lips to mine. “Extra sauce, please. And light cheese, if they can do that. And maybe some wine because I need to hear every detail of your date with Marge.”
“You’ve got it, babe.” Mostly, I’m referring to her request for light cheese, even though in my humble opinion, the more cheese on a pizza, the better.
As far as the date with Marge? I still have no idea what she has planned.
I stopped at Lone Brews yesterday morning for coffee, but when I mentioned our plans for this afternoon, Marge refused to talk about it.
So we could still be looking at an afternoon of bungee jumping or karaoke singing or just about anything. And I’m sure Marge is relishing the mystery.
Rory picks up Spam, tucking him under her arm, and heads for the door. She slips her feet into boots before heading out.
With every movement, I’m in awe.
This is my life.
Rory, living in my house. Our house.
The easy way she kisses me goodbye, heads off to work.
Hell, it’s better than any big declaration of love or grand gesture.
And I can handle mysterious non-romantic dates or light cheese on my pizza or whatever life throws at me. Because no matter what, it’ll be worth it to be with Rory.
Life is lived in the little moments.
And these little moments are everything.
At exactly 1:59 p.m., a blue Prius pulls into my driveway.
It’s not the car I’d expect Marge to drive, if only because most of the long-term residents of High Lonesome have learned the importance of four-wheel drive.
But as I step outside and make my way toward the vehicle, I realize she’s not driving. Actually—I squint—I don’t see her in the car at all.
The driver rolls down his window. “Nate Patterson?”
“Yeah?”
I study the guy in the driver’s seat. A shock of blond hair falls across one eye, and as I try to figure out what’s going on, he tosses his head, momentarily giving me a glimpse of his full face. He barely looks old enough to drive.
“I’m your Uber driver.”
I blink, still not fully grasping the situation. I didn’t realize we even had the ride-share service available in our small town.
Also, I’m still thrown by the fact that this kid looks like he belongs in math class rather than behind the wheel of a car.
“Like, someone ordered a ride? I’m supposed to come here, and you get in the car? And then I drive you somewhere? And then whoever ordered the ride pays?” His voice rises at the end of every sentence, like he’s asking me rather than explaining the basic premise of how a ride-share service works.
“I get how Uber works,” I finally manage. “I’m just not sure how you got my address. Or name. Or how we have an Uber service at all in this town, to be honest.”
The kid tosses his hair again. “I signed up to drive on the app. My buddies did, too. So you can definitely use Uber around here. Just not during school hours ’cause we’re the only drivers right now.”
That helps with my unspoken question about his age, at least, but doesn’t give much insight into what he’s doing here. Also, it is during school hours, unless there’s some kind of day off that I don’t know about.
“And what are you doing in my driveway?” I ask pointedly.
“Someone ordered a ride.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Given my plans with Marge, one can assume that this is connected, but a little more context and information—from both her and this kid—would be much appreciated.
I take a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “What’s your name?”
“Will McNulty.”
“And are you in high school, Will?”
He nods. “I’m a senior at Lonesome Pine.”
“School ends at two thirty, Will.”
A guilty look crosses his face, confirming that he is indeed skipping school. “I didn’t want to miss the gig. There isn’t a lot of business in High Lonesome. I’m just missing gym, anyway.”
I should probably just get in the car and let the kid drive me to wherever Marge has ordered him to take me, but I can’t resist messing with him a little more.
“Hmm. Do you think Principal Kelley would agree that it’s okay to skip gym? Maybe I should call him, just to check. Or maybe the police chief.” I step close enough to the car to set my hand on the roof and lean in. “You were aware that your passenger is a local police officer, weren’t you, Will?”
His eyes go so wide that I practically expect them to bug out of his skull like in a cartoon.
“Please don’t call the principal. Or the police.
I’m so sorry, man. I just… I need the money ’cause there’s this girl I like, and I want to take her out, but there aren’t many jobs in HiLo, and even though this one isn’t super big, I have to take what I can and—”
“Hey, hey,” I say. I was just messing around, but now Will looks like he’s about to cry. “You’re fine. I respect the hustle. Just don’t cut class too often, okay?”
He nods, lower lip still trembling slightly.
I pull open the back door and slide onto the seat. “So did Marge order the ride? And where to?”
“Yeah. And there was a note that said it was supposed to be a surprise?”
I chuckle. Sounds like Marge. I’m looking forward to seeing what she has in store.
I press my hand to my stomach, still waiting for that unsettled feeling to go away. Maybe it was something I ate.
As we turn onto High Street, I mentally run through what I’ve eaten over the last day or so, but I can’t pinpoint anything.
People always say to listen to your gut, and heck, I’m trying. But a few more specifics would be nice.
As it is, all I can tell is that I need to be worried about something.
I just have no idea what that something is.