Last Chance Summer - Shannon Klare Page 0,59

and no scenery but trees.

“So, what is this grand date plan of yours?” I said after a minute. “To get us lost in the woods, then apologize with Starbucks?”

“Would you like that?”

I tapped my fingers against my jaw, letting my attention linger on the window. “I think that depends on how late this Starbucks is open.”

“We’ll go there first,” he said, laughing. “You’ve been talking about it long enough I think you might rebel if I get us there after they’ve closed.”

“Or I’ll cry,” I said.

“I thought you said you don’t cry?”

“I’ll cry for that.”

He reached over and grabbed my hand, grinning as he steered us through the night. Deer scattered both sides of the road, a few threatening to make their way in front of us. Grant slowed for them, easing my nerves and getting us into Lufkin just after nine forty-five.

“We managed to get here with fifteen minutes to spare,” he said, slowing at a stoplight. “Let’s get the caffeine, then get to the real part of the date. I’m going to need a shot or two of espresso if we’re going to be even remotely successful locating anything.”

“Locating anything like…”

“Geocaches.”

I arched a brow as he merged onto the loop. “Is there a description that comes with that word, or should I already know what that means?”

“You’ve never been geocaching?” he said, gawking at me from across the console.

“Nope. I’ve done a lot of things, but that isn’t one of them.”

“Then we’re definitely going.” He pulled his phone from the console, handing it to me. “Find the app that says geocache. I saved some of the coordinates earlier.”

I took the phone from him, pausing at the picture on his phone screen. A selfie of what looked like a younger version of Grant and the same man from the photo in Grant’s cabin stared back at me. Same chestnut-colored hair. Same vivid hazel eyes. Same sharp facial features as the guy who sat across from me now.

“Is this you and your dad?” I said, scrolling through the apps.

“Yeah,” he said, slowing as he exited the loop. “I think I was twelve in that picture. Maybe eleven. Can’t remember exactly.”

“Y’all look alike.”

“Thanks. I hear that all the time.”

I found the geocache app and hit it with my thumb. “So, in the interest of getting to know you better, where are you from?” I said.

“Why do you randomly want to know?” he asked.

“Thought it might be a good idea, given that this is a date and that’s usually what people do.”

“Boring people.”

“So, Dallas?” I said. “One of those places in the Panhandle? You have an accent, so you have to be a born and bred Texan. I’m assuming somewhere in the backwoods.”

“Um, you’re the Cajun,” Grant said, grinning. “And to answer your question, I currently live in Lubbock. I just finished my freshman year at Tech.”

“What are you studying?”

“Sports management,” he said. “Cliffs Notes: I’d eventually like to do some kind of sports-analyst job for ESPN. If it falls through, I’ll probably aim for a sports-agent position or something along those lines.”

“Sounds fun.”

“For now,” he said, shrugging. “But who knows? If my mom had it her way, I’d still be in Austin. She always saw me as getting into something more politically driven. Basketball analytics are the furthest thing from her idea of an interesting conversation topic.”

“What about your dad? Who does he side with?”

“My dad died when I was thirteen. Hit by a drunk driver. But, if he was still around, I think he’d want me to do what makes me happy.”

Nausea flooded my stomach, my fingers becoming increasingly heavy as I lifted a steely gaze. For as much as I could’ve curled into a tiny ball and shriveled into nothing, it was a good thing he was paying attention to pulling into Starbucks and wasn’t focused on me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t—”

“Because we hadn’t talked about it,” Grant said. “But that’s part of why we’re on a date. You get to know me. I get to know you. That’s how this works.”

“Right.” I returned my attention to the phone, my hands growing clammy as I pretended to focus on the locations Grant had marked under his favorites. Why hadn’t he said anything?

“But that doesn’t mean you have to get all awkward,” he said, slowing in the drive-through. “Please don’t get awkward.”

“I’m not getting awkward,” I said.

“I’ve been around you enough to read you,” Grant said. He shifted, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. “I’ve just learned it’s