Her smile could light up midnight in a coal mine, and I don’t seem to be able to resist it. “Not a lemon drop, but maybe…”
“I knew it. You have sour worms written all over you.”
I look down at my scruffy, worn jeans, gray t-shirt, and worn plaid overshirt with a torn pocket. “I do?”
I should argue that we have better things to do, but I don’t. I watch as she grabs bubble gum and a small pack of tiny plastic horses. I add it all up silently in my head to compensate.
Another deviation. But I let her do it, anyway.
The last stop is Murphy’s Western Wear. I don’t even have to check the list for this one: boot oil, leather laces, and a new belt for Conway.
Grace’s eyes go wide the moment we step inside. Racks of plaid shirts, rows of shiny belt buckles, and walls lined with boots in every imaginable shade of brown.
“This is amazing,” she whispers.
“It’s practical,” I correct automatically, grabbing what I need with clinical precision.
She trails behind me, running her fingers along soft suede and polished leather. We’re almost at the register when she stops dead in front of the hat wall.
“Oh my God,” she says softly. “I need to try one.”
I sigh, already bracing myself. “They’re not practical for city people.”
She ignores me completely, plucks a soft tan Stetson from the rack, and places it on her head. It dips low over her messy ponytail and sun-flushed cheeks.
I freeze.
It suits her far too well.
Grace grins at my expression, cocking one hip. “How do I look?”
I clear my throat. “Ridiculous.”
She laughs and walks toward me slowly, fishing in the paper bag from the grocery store. “Here.”
I eye the wriggling strip of candy she holds between two fingers.
“I’m not eating that.”
“Yes, you are.”
I hesitate long enough for Beau to nudge my calf with his cold nose. Traitor.
With a resigned sigh, I lean forward and accept the sour worm straight from her fingers, catching the warm tips between my lips by accident. The bright burst of tart sugar hits my tongue, and I intended to scowl, but instead, my face heats, and so does Grace’s, and we stand trapped in a bubble of awareness that descends over us like the fog at dawn.
“See?” she murmurs like she’s whispering a secret, her eyes dancing with barely contained glee. “Morale boost.”
I shake my head, chewing. “You’re dangerous.”
She smiles wide, tilting the hat back with one finger. “So are you, Lennon. So are you.”
I don’t respond because I haven’t felt anything near dangerous for a long time, and because I realize at that moment that I have no defense against Grace and her sweetness.
I grab the hat gently off her head and place it on the counter. “We’re buying it.”
Her mouth opens to protest.
“Souvenir,” I say gruffly. “You’re here. You might as well look the part.”
