Page 74 of Blue Line

“Oh.” I blink back the tears that threaten to fall.

This man.

This sweet, sweet man is ruining me for all other men.

There’s no way any other guy will be better than him. When we break up, because I know it’ll happen—it always does—I’ll just have to make do with the memories.

“Thank you. I don’t … I don’t know what to say to that. I’ve never had that.”

“Well, you have it now,” he says, dropping a kiss to the top of my head before pulling the sheets up and tucking them around us.

I fall asleep listening to the beat of his heart, happy and satisfied and trying to live in the moment.

“You’re taking me to a gas station?” I lean forward, peering out the front window, as he pulls into what is most definitely a gas station the next afternoon. A massive-ass gas station, but still a gas station. Not what I had pictured for our date, that’s for sure.

“Have you ever been here?” he asks, maneuvering his Jeep into a parking spot.

“Nope.”

“You’re missing out. Come on, let’s go inside.” He shuts off his Jeep and climbs out.

With a resigned sigh, I do the same, rounding the car to where he’s waiting for me on the sidewalk.

“It’s a gas station, Weston. I’ve been to plenty of those before.” I roll my eyes.

“Nah, this isn’t any old gas station. This is a Buc-ee’s.” He says it like I should know what that means, but I don’t.

“Oh-kay?”

“Not only do they have over a hundred gas pumps, but the inside is the size of a grocery store. It’s really cool. Come on, I promise you won’t be disappointed.” He puts out his hand, and I take it, letting him lead me toward the front door, not convinced I’m going to change my mind.

“Welcome to Buc-ee’s,” a cashier greets us as we enter.

My jaw about hits the floor as I take everything in.

“Shit,” I mumble.

He wasn’t kidding. This isn’t any old gas station. This place is huge. And it’s immaculate. Like, spotless. The floors are shining. Even the ceiling is clean, and let me tell you, that’s a good indication that a place is kept pristine.

“Where do you even start in a place this size?” I ask.

He gently tugs at my hand, pulling me further into the store.

“They’ve got everything here,” I mumble, taking it all in as we make our way through the aisles.

One side of the store is filled with home goods—dishes, cookware, cookbooks, home decor. The other side has a barbecue station, a counter that’s all fudge and other sweets, and a wall of beef jerky. Yes, a wall of jerky.

The back section, where Wes brings us, is filled with merchandise featuring Buc-ee, a cute beaver wearing a red shirt with his face on it and a red corduroy hat. His face is on everything you could possibly want, from bathing suits to towels to pillows to shirts and even mugs, shot glasses, and jewelry by the looks of it.

“Oh my gosh, he’s adorable,” I gush, walking over to a big red truck with its bed filled with Buc-ee plushies. I pick one up and hug it to my chest.

How can I resist loving a cute beaver with his two big buck teeth and his little red hat? I can’t help the grin on my face as I take it all in, the stuffed toy tucked into my arms. I’ll admit, I’m sold on the gas station now, and I can see the appeal.

“Pick one you like,” Wes says, stepping up behind me. His hands go to my waist as he leans around me and peers into the bed of the truck. “They’ve got Buc-ees in other sizes too.”

“Nah, I’m too old for stuffed animals,” I mumble, setting the toy back down.

That’s what I’m supposed to say. Right? What I’m supposed to think. So why does it make me sad? I’m a fucking adult. I do not need a stuffed animal. I’m too old for them.