Page 50 of Small Town Boy

Bronwyn.

“Fuck,” I mutter out loud, slowing down and pulling over.

The car is nondescript enough that it could be anyone. One of a hundred fleet vehicles driven all over the state. But I know it’s her.

How? That I can’t explain. But I do.

I put my truck in park, not far behind where her back end is sticking out. Hopping out, I take a look around, making sure I don’t need to call 911. Everything looks okay though—other than the location of her vehicle.

The ditch isn’t very deep, but it looks like she’s wedged the front in there pretty good. It’ll take a winch to get her out, but after that, everything should be right as rain. Thank God.

My heart is racing a million miles an hour as I approach the driver’s side door, lightly tapping on the window. Bronwyn jumps, hand rushing to her chest, before she opens the door and steps out.

She looks just as beautiful as she did earlier, her black V-neck tee dipping down just enough to show off a hint of her chest, jean skirt hugging the curve of her hips, showing off the gorgeous legs that lead to black, studded cowboy boots that she undoubtedly borrowed for the evening.

My dick twitches, drinking her in. I want to push her against the car and show her what she’s missing since she ran way, but instead, I step back, giving her room.

“Hi,” she greets, not looking me in the eye.

“Second time I’ve found you like this. Startin’ to wonder if it’s gonna be a habit.”

Bronwyn scoffs, flicking her eyes to meet mine. They are dark, full of an emotion I can’t name, paired with a frown that has me guessing at her mood.

“No,” she scolds. “The first time was because that stupid truck is three times as old as I am and the damn clutch thingy broke.”

“And tonight?”

“Tonight I was run off the road by a bro-dozer of a pickup truck that had its tailgate painted with a Wookie posing seductively, like Burt Reynolds in that old issue of Playgirl, complete with a strategically placed raccoon!”

I throw my head back, a loud guffaw rumbling up my chest. It sounds too far-fetched to be true, a tailgate painted like that, but it’s not. What’s worse is I know exactly who it belongs to.

“Arnie Fossenwinkle’s back in town. Good to know.”

Bronwyn scowls, crossing her arms, and I laugh. She looks like steam could come out of her ears at any moment.

“It’s not funny!” She stomps her foot, trying to make her point.

Her anger is clear. What isn’t clear, though, is why. What does she have to be angry about? I’m the one she abandoned.

“One, it absolutely is funny. Two, just what are you all pissy about?”

“What? What? Oh, where do you want me to start?” She throws her hands out, growling in frustration.

Oh, two can play this game.

“How about the damn beginning? Because you are not the one who was left high and dry on the dance floor, immediately after declaring your feelings!” I scream.

“Oh, so now you’re mad at me.”

“This isn’t mad, Honey. I get mad—just ask Nash. But that’s not what this is. What this is, is real fucking frustrated, because I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What?”

“Honey. It’s not my name!”

“Bronwyn.”