“Not the usual little girl dream,” he noted.
“I wasn’t the usual little girl,” I shared.
He looked back to the trees, murmuring, “You’re not a usual woman.”
I turned my attention to the trees, murmuring back, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Meant as one.”
I grinned into my glass and took a sip.
Then I kept talking.
“A lot of people would think I’m crazy, but this is all I want. I want to be sitting right here when I’m eighty, listening to the river, gazing at the trees.”
“Nothin’ crazy about that.”
Oh man.
I liked that he thought that.
I took in a deep breath and let it out, asking, “Where do you wanna be when you’re eighty?”
“Don’t fuck up and blow my shot, sittin’ on my ass on a chair that I’m glad now has a pad, next to a decent woman with beautiful eyes, lips made to be kissed, and phenomenal hair, listenin’ to a river and starin’ at some trees.”
Yes.
I was crazy.
Absolutely.
Because I was filled with glee that he wanted that.
Not to mention the sweet things he said to me.
“Though,” he continued, “only if she doesn’t turn out to be a crazy bitch who loses her mind if I don’t put my towel on the rail the exact way she wants it to be.”
I looked to him, grinning.
“Towel placement is super-important, Deacon.”
He said nothing but in the dim light coming from my lit kitchen, I saw his eyes crinkle.
“Coaster usage is too,” I went on.
The eye crinkles stayed where they were even as he took a sip of bourbon.
“Not to mention, appropriate care and cleaning of your vehicle.”
He had something to say to that.
“A truck that’s not dirty is not a truck. It’s a pussy wagon.”
I burst out laughing.
“I’m not joking,” he said through my laughter, which made me laugh harder.
It also made me get up, put my glass on the railing, and move to him.