Fall in Love Book Bundle: Small Town Romance Box Set

by Grover Swank, Denise

  Once again, Duane was driving his Road Runner. This time I was able to ogle the car as we approached, appreciate its simple, elegant lines before he opened the passenger door for me.

  Even though this was our second date, everything felt different. Better. The weight of my dishonesty had been lifted. I was all in. Everything was out in the open and we had a deal. Therefore it felt more like a true date. Like I could relax and just enjoy his company, because I knew we had thirteen and a half months together.

  Once we were settled inside we grinned at each other.

  Feeling downright giddy, I asked, “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see,” he answered mysteriously, his eyes sliding over my body with blatant appreciation.

  That got me warm. Yes, it did.

  I really, really liked how Duane Winston looked at me. He employed every ounce of his attention and focus, like he was making plans.

  Then his gaze snagged on my bare knee. “Are you going to be warm enough in that dress?”

  I shrugged. “I hope so. But since you won’t tell me where we’re going, I guess we’ll see.”

  Duane gave me another once-over as he brought the engine to life and we were off.

  At first—for the first two minutes or so—neither of us said a word. I’d wondered about this, worried that our agreement might make things strained. Not willing to sit in silence any longer, I resolved to speak.

  “So—” I said.

  “So—” he said at the same time.

  We both laughed, and I offered, “You go first.”

  Duane cleared his throat, his expression suddenly somber, and began again, “So, about that syphilis diagnosis…”

  I threw my head back and laughed, was pleased when I heard his answering rumbly laughter join mine, and felt him place his hand on my knee and squeeze. I was happy when he left it there.

  When I was finished with my giggles, I hit him on the shoulder and tsked, “I can’t believe no one thought that joke was funny last night. That joke was way funnier than they gave it credit for. STD humor is just lost on some people.”

  “It was funny, but I think maybe—given the fact that Kip Sylvester is your boss and his daughter was present—it wasn’t surprising he didn’t laugh. And don’t mind Billy. He can’t laugh at anything in public. I bet he was dying laughing on the inside.”

  I turned my attention back to Duane. “What? Why? Why can’t Billy laugh at anything in public?”

  “’Cause everyone knows him, who he is. Heck, half of the guys at the jam session work for him. And I think he’s considering a run for county commissioner in two years.”

  “Oh, goodness. That sounds awful. I can’t imagine being a public servant, all those people and their opinions.”

  “I know, right? People are the worst.”

  His comment made me laugh again and I studied him for a beat, wondering what other hidden layers he might reveal.

  To this end, I said, “So, Duane Winston, tell me about yourself.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me…tell me something I don’t know. What’s your favorite movie?”

  “Anything with a good car chase.”

  I smiled at the predictability of his response, but it didn’t feel quite right. “Why do I doubt your answer?”

  Duane’s gaze slid to mine and he gave me a half smile. “You don’t like a good car chase?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just meant, why do I feel like there’s more to you than your stereotypical guy answer?”

  His hand gripped then relaxed on the steering wheel. “There’s a reason we eat popcorn during a movie. If I want to zone out, be brainless and entertained, then I watch TV, go to a movie. If I want a good story, then I read a book.”

  “Ah ha!” I poked his shoulder gently. “There it is. You’re a book person. That’s probably because your mother was a librarian.”

  “Yeah, she likely had an influence…” Duane squirmed a little in his seat, his eyebrows tugging low over his eyes like he was deep in thought. “I reckon most people look at us Winston boys and see a bunch of hillbillies, sons of Darrell Winston, con man and criminal. In some ways, I guess we are. We like our cars, barbeque, and banjo music. But our momma wanted more for us. She demanded it. Momma basically put each of us through a kind of finishing school.”

  “How’d she manage that?”

  “Books. Lots of books. At least one a week to expand our vocabulary and our minds. The classics were required reading. Plus table manners—all manners—were taken very seriously. Words like ain’t, which isn’t a word, weren’t allowed in the house, though we’ve all grown lazy with proper grammar as we’ve grown older. She also taught us how to dance.”

  “Dance? She taught you to dance?”

  “Yep.”

  “Like, what? Like the waltz?”

  He nodded faintly, clearly lost in a memory of his mother. I didn’t interrupt. Instead I admired his profile, feeling the depths to which I’d missed him. I’d missed him so much. For the first time in a week I felt like I could draw a complete breath. I knew I was falling hard and fast, but I didn’t care. We had just over a year and I planned to abandon myself to it, to him. I was completely and totally all in.

  At length Duane shook his head like he was coming out of a trance and added, “But really, I think I’d prefer to be out there myself. Living, doing, seeing for myself.”

  I was nodding before he finished his thought. “Yes, exactly. That’s exactly how I feel. I actually get frustrated sometimes when I read travel blogs or magazines. It’s like, I want to be the one out there doing it, not reading about someone else’s experience.”

  Duane nodded at my words like he truly understood my perspective; but then he surprised me by asking, “So then, what have you done?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, how have you lived? What have you done? And that crazy stuff you did while we were kids doesn’t count.”

  Now I squirmed a bit in my seat. Duane shifted like he was about to remove his hand, so I covered it with mine, pressed it to my knee.

  Eventually I admitted the sad truth. “I’ve done a lot of planning, getting ready. But honestly, nothing exciting so far.” I added with a sad sigh, “No big trips or adventures.”

  His eyes were on the road, but how he’d slightly inclined his head toward me and stroked his thumb over my kneecap told me he was thinking about my response. His thoughtful expression transitioned into a frown.

  “You don’t need a big trip to have an adventure. There’s plenty of adventures to be had right here.”

  I tsked. “You know what I mean.”

  “I guess I do…and I guess I don’t. I’m just saying, if you can’t have an adventure where you are, what makes you think you’ll have an adventure anywhere else?”

  I felt the answer was obvious; nevertheless I said, “Because it’ll be someplace new. I’ve already done and seen everything there is to do and see here.”

  “Well, enlighten me then. What adventures are there to be had in Green Valley, Tennessee?”

  I assumed his question was meant to be ironic, so I laughed and responded, “None.”

  “Wrong.”

  I scoffed. “No. Not wrong. We have three restaurants, three bars, Cooper’s Field, and the jam session on Friday nights. Therein lies the sum total of what Green Valley has to offer.”

  “Wrong,” he repeated, but this time the corner of his mouth tugged upward like he was fighting a smile.

  “Oh really? What am I missing then?”

  “Hiking, fishing, canoeing, camping.”

  “Come on, Duane. We hiked and explored all through these mountains when we were kids. You said kid stuff doesn’t count.”

  He hesitated for a minute, then said, “Bungee jumping.”

  I nearly choked. “Bungee jumping? You’ve been bungee jumping?”

  “Yes. And sky diving.”

  “Holy crap! When, where?”

/>   “I’ll take you.”

  My chest constricted with a healthy dose of fear, and my immediate response was to shake my head. “No. No thank you. I think I’ll pass.”

  “You said you wanted adventure.”

  “Adventure isn’t the same thing as trying to kill yourself.”

  Now he laughed. “It’s not that dangerous.”

  “Says the Dare Devil, Duane Winston.”

  “So, you’re telling me that when you leave and go on your wanderlust walkabouts, you’re planning on having only nice, quiet safe adventures?” He made a face, like he was disappointed in me. “That’s not living. That’s just more time spent planning.”

  Again I squirmed in my seat and grumbled, “No.”

  “Yes,” he countered.

  Mild irritation made my chest and cheeks hot, and I glared at him. “Just because I don’t wish to throw myself out of a plane and plummet to the earth doesn’t mean my adventures will be boring.”

  “You don’t have to throw yourself out of a plane, because I’ll be there to push you.” With this he glanced at me, grinning like a devil, and winked.

  My mouth fell open and a small, strangled sound of disbelief emerged from my throat. But then I laughed through my outrage, because his expression was both adorably and thrillingly mischievous. Soon he was laughing too, likely at my stunned and annoyed expression.

  While laughing, I reached over and squeezed his leg. “Well, I wouldn’t want to be a burden.”

  He caught my hand. “It would be no burden at all. I’m happy to offer my services any time you need to be tossed out of a plane.”

  “Or off a bridge?”

  “Or a dock.”

  “Or a boat.”

  “Yes. Even a boat. I’ll be happy to push you any time pushing is required.” As he said these words we came to a stoplight and he turned just his head, giving me a happy smile and squeezing my hand. His smile was dazzling, and I felt my own lips curve into a wide grin.

  Goodness, I loved it when he smiled, like he was doing now. I felt like finally, finally I was seeing the real Duane Winston, the one he only shared with a rare and worthy few. And I fell a bit more. I enjoyed this feeling of falling, the thrill and certainty of it, of his worthiness.

  “I feel I must reciprocate,” I said quietly, losing myself in his closeness, the genuine warmth and affection clear in his handsome face. “Please let me know if I can ever be of service pushing you in a similar fashion.”

  I watched him take a deep breath, his gaze moving over my features—still warm with affection—and he said in a near whisper, “My momma once told me, you don’t need to be pushed in order to fall. I don’t think you’ll need to do much pushing, Jessica.”

  * * *

  It took us about another hour to reach our destination, during which we fell into easy conversation. He told me tales about crazy customers, and I had to guess whether they were true or false. The most outrageous stories turned out to be true, thereby shaking my faith in humanity and reminding me that fifty percent of the population fell beneath one hundred on the IQ curve.

  Before I knew it, time was up and we’d arrived. I squinted out the windshield and realized where we were.

  “The Canyon? You brought me to watch the dirt races?” I was not complaining, not at all. I was merely surprised, and maybe a little nervous.

  Duane nodded as he pulled into a space toward the front. It was conspicuously empty, like it was his spot though I couldn’t see a marker that marked it as such.

  He popped his door open as he cut the engine. “Yes. We can watch the races, but there’s good food, too. And we can talk in between. Just stay close, things can get crazy.”

  He came around the car and reached for my door just as I opened it, offering his hand. I took his and he kept mine. Our fingers remained entwined as we walked toward the closest of three bonfires. I wasn’t usually much of a hand holder, but I liked his hands—the large, roughness of them—and I liked how the contact kept us close.

  “Are you hungry? There’s some tailgaters up ahead. They have ribs cooking, chili, cornbread, and coleslaw, though the coleslaw isn’t as good as the stuff served at the community center on Fridays.”

  I made a note of how wistful he sounded about the community center coleslaw. I knew Julianne MacIntyre made it every week and decided to interrogate the recipe out of her at some point.

  “Chili and cornbread sound good,” I responded while rubbernecking without shame, endeavoring to scope out our surroundings.

  Duane was right. It wasn’t even 7:30 p.m. and things already looked a little crazy. I’d never been to The Canyon before, never seen one of the dirt races, never had an occasion to do so.

  This wasn’t some country fair, wholesome dirt racing. This place felt dangerous, risky. The air smelled like various types of smoke—wood fire, charcoal, and engine oil—and would have been overwhelming in the hot, stagnant summer. But borne on the cool wind of late fall it was heady, but not overpowering.

  I noticed a group of punk rock looking folks and their girls making out next to one of the bonfires—like, for real making out—black labeled bottles of bourbon lining their blanket. Two of the guys were arguing over one of the girls and tempers appeared close to snapping.

  As well, I felt a little overdressed. And by overdressed I should say over-clothed. The night was mild, but it was still cold; yet every woman we passed was wearing either a miniskirt or leather pants, sometimes a leather miniskirt. And their tops showed more skin than my bathing suit.

  “Not everyone is friendly,” Duane said, obviously noticing my gaping.

  I pressed myself closer to Duane. He took the hint and wrapped his arm around my shoulders.

  “The groups here segregate themselves, don’t mix much, except on the track.”

  “Which group is yours?” I glanced up at him, watched as his eyes narrowed and he twisted his mouth to the side.

  “I don’t really have a group.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I know just about all the racers—the ones who take it seriously—and we have a mutual respect thing going on. But I don’t usually associate with any one group.”

  “A lone wolf?”

  He smirked, his gaze sliding to mine. “Something like that.”

  We passed several clusters of people, either gathered around one of the bonfires or lingering within a circle created by their cars. Several were calm, sedate, like they were tailgating at a football game. Others were rowdy—fighting, drinking, and screwing for everyone to see. I supposed everyone had a different idea of what constituted a good time.

  As well, every age was represented and, seemingly, several socioeconomic strata. I saw Corvettes next to souped-up Honda Civics; a rusted-out Nissan truck parked beside a brand new Acura. Some of the groups looked like they were my age or younger—college and high school kids—and several seemed to be at least twenty or thirty years my senior. And some groups were mixed.

  After assessing the crowd, the first thing I noticed was that The Canyon wasn’t really a canyon. The Canyon was an abandoned mine.

  Street racing was obviously illegal, as it was almost everywhere. Racing at The Canyon, though not technically sanctioned by local law enforcement, wasn’t an arrestable offense. Betting on the races, however, was illegal. But I’d heard rumors that betting was rampant and thousands of dollars exchanged hands every weekend; the race winners supposedly went home with a big cut.

  We eventually approached two giant Dodge trucks with grills and tables set up just in front of the truck beds. We stood in a line of about twenty or thirty people, all waiting to grab food. The man in front of us glanced over his shoulder, his eyes moved down then up my body. I scowled at his blatant leering.

  “Keep your eyes to yourself, Devon,” Duane growled, his arm turning me so I was pressed against his side.

  The man’s attention shifted to Duane. Then his eyes grew large and he turned completely around, a big smile on his
face.

  “I haven’t seen you in weeks.” He reached for and grabbed Duane’s hand, shaking it with enthusiasm. “Wait ’til I tell the boys you’re here.”

  I studied this Devon person as he smiled at Duane with something like worship. He was about my age, maybe a bit older, looked like that actor David Oyelowo, and wore a black leather jacket, blue jeans, and boots. He was obviously part of some biker club, but I didn’t recognize the emblem on his chest.

  “Let me buy you and your lady dinner.”

  “No thanks, I got it.”

  Devon’s brown eyes glanced at me, then back to Duane, and he lifted his dark eyebrows. I heard Duane sigh.

  “Jess, this is Devon St. Cloud—or just Saint if you prefer to use his club name. Devon, this is Jess.” Duane made the introductions reluctantly, like his good manners required it.

  Devon’s strong hand enveloped mine as he gushed, “Your old man is the best. The best. Ain’t nobody race like Red. We used to race Humvees around dirt tracks in Afghanistan, when I was stationed there, and I thought those guys were crazy. But nobody compares to Red.”

  I couldn’t help my smile, liking Devon a bit more now he was praising my old man. Plus I liked that his biker name was Saint.

  “What? Red is here?”

  This comment came from someone else farther up in the line, and I craned my neck to the side to see who. Turns out this was unnecessary because we were soon surrounded by several people—male and female—all anxious to see Duane, shake his hand, and meet me as well.

  It became a bit overwhelming, to be honest, and everyone wanted to know the same thing: was Duane racing? And, if so, which races? And how was he feeling?

  In the end we weren’t allowed to buy our dinner because guy named Sheldon bought us a tray of food without asking permission. This caused a bit of an upset as Devon and his biker brethren had offered first. Duane used this distraction as an opportunity to move us away from the food line.

  As he pulled me away I said, “Lone wolf, huh?”

  He bent and whispered in my ear, “They only like me so much because I make them money and they enjoy watching me race.”