“It’s a beautiful night,” Mercer says, sucking in a deep breath of the muggy night.
I make a guttural, unladylike noise. “It’s hell on earth out here.”
He chuckles as he follows me to my car. “I know a thing or two about hell on Earth ma’am, and this ain’t it. This is paradise.”
Glancing over my shoulder I see Mercer holding his arms out wide, the dadgum wine bottle clutched in one hand grinning like a fool. “Put the wine bottle down,” I hiss, looking around the empty lot. “You look like Lucky Louie on a Saturday night.” Greenton’s favorite drunk always seems to get booze lucky on the weekends.
Mercer leans against my car, one arm steadying his body when I open the driver’s side door. “Are you okay to drive?” he asks, eyes flicking up and down my body—as if that holds the answer to his question.
“I’m fine. You know us Greenton women.”
He offers a lopsided grin. “I do.”
“Listen, Mercer—” I say, sliding into the car, ready to shoot him down again.
He cuts me off. “Pop the trunk. I’ll put the wine in and you can be on your way.”
A sudden realization hits. “Just give it here,” I say, reaching over and taking the bottle from him. I wedge it in my backseat. He can’t see what’s in my trunk. “I’m heading straight home anyway.” Another lie. They flow so easily these days.
“You’re going to say you don’t want to go out with me again, and I’m not taking no for an answer,” Mercer says, his accent growing thicker by the second. “Let’s just get to the point where you agree. What do you say?”
“Awful forward of you,” I reply, smoothing my hair. The scent of new car fills my nostrils—a welcome distraction from Mercer’s soap.
He shrugs once and puts his other hand on the door of my car. Sighing, he says, “This place. There’s something about this place that makes me happy. I have three weeks to make the most of it.” I meet his gaze and it’s a mistake. All the things I’m trying to shove down, including rebuttals, get lost in the swirling haze of desire.
Swallowing hard, I find myself. “I’m sorry, Mercer. I’m not the person to do that with.”
“Who said anything about doing things?” He winks. I turn to look out my windshield and silence envelops me. “You are obviously searching for something. Why not give a look with me?”
“The thing is, I know exactly who I am, Mercer. I am not some two-bit floozy who you can use and toss aside. I am Clover Wellsley. The mayor’s daughter.”
Mercer leans away. “And here I was thinking you were your own person.” There’s a challenge blazing in his eyes. It makes my heart pound. “My mistake. Have a nice night, Clover Wellsley, mayor’s daughter.”
Gripping my steering wheel, I take a deep breath. “We all can’t run around here doing whatever it is we feel like. There are repercussions for actions. Thank you for the wine, and the company, but I have to go now.” Polite yet firm. It works like a charm ninety percent of the time. The other ten is reserved for indignant, Southern rage.
He tips his head, that infuriating cowboy gesture, and smiles wide. “Drive safe, ma’am.” Mercer closes my door. He doesn’t slam it. He’s a perfect gentleman. And he’s also right. Starting up my car, I watch him walk back into DR. Slamming my eyes shut, I yell out a cuss, “Oh, Sherlock!” I back out of my space and pull onto the road. I’m not going home, though. Not yet.
Fixing my eyes on the route out of town, I drive toward it, minding the speed limit with my music louder than fifteen. I’m such a rebel. Why did he have to be the ninety percent? I’d feel better right now if I got to scream at someone.
A sign.
That’s what I asked for, what I’m waiting for. Mercer Ballentine could be that sign, right? In fact, he’s flashing brighter than anything I’ve seen my entire life. There are a few weird things I do when I’m trying to decide if something is a good idea. Making lists is one of those things. Very detailed and very neat lists with pros on one side and cons on the other. After nine minutes and fifteen seconds of making a mental list, I realize I’m hung up on things that don’t matter to me. The negative column is filled with things that matter to the life I was born into. To my parents. I’m painfully aware that my unhappiness and the unsettling feeling of not belonging is because of it.
I don’t see the pickup truck pulling onto the main road because it’s coming from a hidden drive. As my thoughts wandered and I traveled out of town, my speed ratcheted up, and I don’t think I can stop in time. I’m plowing down the pavement toward the bumper when I chance a glance in my rearview at the bright headlights rushing toward me. Light. That’s all I see a moment before the car clips the back end of my car and sends me spinning into the easement, and then a tree.
Panicking once my car comes to a stop, I see the car that hit me speeding off in the distance. He must have passed the truck that pulled out in front of me. I touch my chest, my head, my legs, and realize I am perfectly fine. Rolling my neck and surveying my surroundings, I start thanking God. Over and over at a manic pace. “I could have died,” I wail out, trying the handle of my door when steam begins to rise from my crunched-up hood that’s melded to a tree. “Farm truck. They’re going to kill me,” I whisper when the facts settle in.
Another set of headlights beam into my face from my window that is now facing the road. “Great. Please don’t let it be a cop. Please don’t let it be Harry ifit isa cop.” Clenching my teeth, I hold my breath. Harry is the Sheriff of Greenton and he’s in my daddy’s pocket. He will call him the second he sees it’s me. I need time to get myself out of this mess—to think. Squinting my eyes, I try my best to see through the darkness. It’s a white truck, not a cruiser. I let out a long, haggard breath. Just someone stopping to help, no doubt. Removing my heels, I push on my door with my feet until it unwillingly creaks open. Waving my arms as I step out of the car to signal, I am okay, but yes, I need help. Promptly, and without an ounce of grace, I slip in a gloppy mud puddle and fall face first. It rained like cats and dogs yesterday. It turns this place into a big swamp, and I’m today’s casualty.
Leaning up and climbing to my knees, I’m a dark shade of horse manure. Two large figures hop out of the truck and jog toward me. It’s Mercer and Bentley, flashlights shining at me like I’m a deer about to get flayed.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I scream, wiping mud from my face, but only managing to apply more. “This is the sign?” I shout at the sky, shaking a fist. “This? Out of all things?”
Mercer approaches first. “Are you hurt?”
Southern ladies keep their cool in situations such as these. In all situations and occurrences actually, but the hysteria creeps in and replaces all of that. “Am I okay? That’s what you’re askin’? Look at me, Mercer Ballentine. Do I look okay? Turn off the trucking flashlight, I don’t want to go blind tonight, too!”
He shakes his head. “No ma’am, you don’t look okay. Not one bit. We saw the accident. The car that didn’t stop. We saw you spinning, and I have to say it’s a miracle you’re okay. Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Bentley is looking at me like I’m a rabid animal. Fair. It’s what I feel like right now. “I have medical training. I can help.” He holds one palm out, like he’s waiting for me to charge like a bull. The flashlight is aimed at my steaming car. There’s a weird smell that I assume is my poor car crying out for help.
