Peyton Church is a city girl by anyone's standards. Born and raised in New York City, she grew up wanting for nothing. She attended the most prestigious preparatory schools, shopped on Fifth Avenue, dined with the rich and famous and was adored by...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
SUFFICE IT TO say, Hunter will probably never let me behind the wheel of his truck again.
He does his best to teach me how to drive it. He explains how to switch gears and what the clutch is. He also tries to explain something called "three-on-the-tree", but I'll admit, it makes absolutely no sense to me. At least he's gorgeous to look at, it makes it easier to smile and nod as if I'm getting what he's saying.
Thankfully, I don't have to drive far to get where we're going. Hunter directs me down an old dirt road that runs through his family's property I makes two lefts and a right, and fiddle around with the break when he tells me to stop.
As soon as I've turned the keys into the off position, I sigh, and I feel five tons of weight lift off of my shoulders.
"That wasn't awful, Skirt," he tells me. But he's chuckling as he says it, and I know better than to believe him.
I glare at him across the seat. "That was the single most stressful thing I've done in my life. And I've spent Black Friday on Fifth Avenue."
My analogy is lost on him. "It's nothing a little practice won't fix," he tells me, squeezing my knee before climbing out of the truck. I huff, blowing hair out of my face, and the driver's side door opens.
"Get out here," he grins, taking my hand and pulling me out of my seat. His hands grab my waist and he literally lifts me up like something out of a freaking romance novel.
I can't help but laugh when he sets me down on my own two feet. "So what are we doing, anyways?" I ask, smiling kind of like an idiot.
He goes around and opens the back of the truck. There's a tarp covering the top of the bed, which is unusual. But when he pulls it off, I understand why.
"Wow."
The bed of the truck is full of mismatched pillows, old blankets and quilts. It looks cozy and inviting, and when he climbs up, I take his hand and follow.
His smile is kind of shy, which is unusual for Hunter. "It's kind of lame," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I figured you've done dinner and a movie a million times. So, why not try some good old fashioned fresh air and a cooler full of snacks my mom insisted on making."
My heart swells beneath my ribs. I grin. "It's actually pretty cool, Maddox. No guy's ever made a bed in the back of his truck for me before."
That makes his smile turn genuine. "Gotta stand out somehow, eh?"
We settle in amongst the blankets. Hunter flips the radio in the truck on to his favorite country station and starts unloading the little blue cooler his mom apparently packed for us. It's full of little sandwiches, cookies and fruits. There's a couple of beers and a few flavoured wine coolers too. Who chose the drinks, I'm not sure of.
