Free Chaste (McCullough Mountain) by Lydia Michaels Page B

room in the backseat. You and your friends could go all
kinds of places and still have room for cargo.”
    She
didn’t see the point in mentioning she didn’t have friends, but it was a nice
fantasy. Maybe she’d get a dog.
    They
drove all over town and down the back roads that circled the farm. The truck
handled like a dream and she’d decided after ten minutes she was going to buy
it. She didn’t care if Mr. Jenkins wouldn’t budge on the cost. It was well
worth the sticker price.
    When
she pulled up at her house about an hour later she turned the key and petted
the dashboard.
    “What
do you think, sug?”
    She
smiled. “I think I love it.”
    He
smiled and removed the key. They dangled from his work-roughened fingers as he
held his arm out to her. “Then enjoy it. It’s yours. I signed the papers last
night.”
    “What?”
    “It’s
yours. I bought it for you.”
    Her
vision blurred and her throat constricted. “You…bought it? Really?”
    “Of
course. I saw the way you were ogling it last week. I knew you wanted it. There’re
a lot of things in this world I’m not equipped to give you, sug, but a truck I
can do.”
    “Dad…”
She shook her head, overwhelmed with gratitude. “How much was it? I’ll give you
the money.”
    “Don’t
insult me, Ashlynn Rose. The truck’s a gift. Now take it gracefully and give
your old dad a kiss.” He pointed to his cheek.
    She
snatched him into her arms and covered his cheek with kisses. “Thank you! Thank
you! Thank you!”
    Roy
laughed, a bit watery, and hugged her. “I’m glad you like it.”
    “I love it!”
    He
nodded, pleased. “How about some breakfast? While you’re cookin’ you can tell
me all about your date last night.”

 
    * * * *

 
    After
her father left, she packed up her freshest fruits and carefully loaded the
bushels into the back of the Great White. Yes, she’d named her truck. So what?
    When
she reached the market the sun was a hot ball of white in the bleached sky,
heating her exposed shoulders. Climbing into the bed of the Great White she dragged
the last of the bushels to the edge.
    “Need
a hand?”
    She
stilled, completely aware of her butt sticking high into the air, as she placed
the sexy voice.
    Her
breath quickened as she dragged a hand over her cheek, wiping the sweat off her
nose. Once she had herself somewhat together she turned. “Kelly, what are you
doing here?”
    “I
needed some…apples.”
    Her
mouth quirked and she reached into the bushel at her feet. Her fist closed over
a granny smith and tossed it to him. He caught it without flinching and his
mouth curved in a half smile as he sank his pearly teeth into it with a juicy
snap.
    “Mmm.
Sweet,” he said as he bit off a section and chewed.
    “You
might want to wash that first. It’s fresh from my gardens.”
    He
shrugged. “Nothin’ wrong with dirty.”
    Her
motions staggered and her heart raced. Turning, she quickly jumped down from
the truck, and hoisted up the bushel of apples. He grabbed a basket of pears as
if it were a sack of feathers and followed her into the back of the market.
    “So
you got a new truck?”
    “Yes.”
What was he doing there? Her focus was on the door at the back of the store.
Escape. “You don’t have to do that.” She motioned to the bushel he carried as
she lugged the apples into the storage room, grunting as she hoisted them onto
the table.
    “It’s
no problem. The truck’s nice. So how was your date last night?”
    She
blinked and averted her eyes, busying herself with the lemon vinegar spray she
made to polish the produce. “It was fine.”
    Polishing
the apples one by one, she lined them neatly in cardboard display racks that
would go into the storeroom. Maybe if she pretended there was nothing odd about
his presence she wouldn’t freak out. Part of her was tempted to have a
teenybopper boy band episode and start squealing like a star struck kid, but
she refrained. Polishing apples it was.
    “You
like