Unable to Resist by Cassie Graham Page B

are talking about me. About us. Looking over my shoulder, I shoot them a death glare, and mouth, ‘shut up.’
    Liv sputters and Mia barks laughter. My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Oh yeah, both of them are kaput when I get home.
    Duane turns around just in time to see Mia slap her hand over her mouth and at least have the decency to blush.
    Serves her right.
    But Liv, in typical Liv fashion, blows a kiss, and I guarantee it wasn’t to me. Bitch.
    I huff and follow Duane out, stomping rather loudly. “Love you! Try not to burn the place down,” I call out, sarcasm lacing my every word.
    Something hits the back of my head and I turn to scowl at Mia without hesitation. I know for a fact Liv couldn’t have hit me from that distance, or at all, actually. I bend to pick up the un-used cupcake wrapper and throw it at Mia’s face.
    And, whoop! Square in the forehead.
    Seriously, how old are we?
    I mentally applaud myself while blowing a kiss and waving to my best friends. At the front door, Duane is grinning a magnificent smile my way.
    I roll my eyes at our antics, mildly embarrassed.
    He looks back at me. “What? That was cute, and you have good aim.”
    A smile creeps onto my face. I can’t help it when he’s around. “Thank you, but to be fair she has a big head.”
    Duane pffts, and shakes his head. “You are a fiery one,” he decides out loud.
    “That’s an understatement.” I laugh. “I’ve always been told I can be kind of a fireball, but I think it adds to my charm. I blame the red hair.”
    My dad always called me a spitfire. Said that I had the attitude to match my hair color. Lively and spirited. Feisty. It always made me laugh.
    Duane’s old Ford sits in the parking lot next to my new, shiny one. Old and new. His truck is beat up. I’m sure it’s seen better days and the white color is faded, yet it’s still sexy as hell. Rugged and handsome, like its owner. My hand itches to drive it.
    The truck. It itches to drive the truck. Not Duane.
    Okay—maybe Duane, too.
    I run my hand along the bed of the truck, and revel in the silkiness of the old machine. It doesn’t have a speck of rust. By the looks of it, Duane has taken great care of it. “This is a beautiful truck, Duane.”
    “I think so too.” He beams. “I don’t have the heart to give her up. I’ll have this truck till she dies and I have to push her off a cliff.”
    I laugh. “She, huh?”
    “What?” He looks at me curiously as if he didn’t realize he called his truck a woman.
    Then it clicks.
    “Oh, yeah, she.” He grins, playing it off as if referring to a truck as a person is normal. “She’s beautiful, strong and trustworthy.”
    I’m not going to lie, hearing him love this truck so thoroughly makes me kind of fall in love with her, too.
    “Alright, alright, you’re right, she, ” I emphasize the word, “Is divine, Duane. Truly, a beautiful truck.”
    He scratches the back of his head and grins. “Thanks, Darlin.”
    He puts my bag in the bed of the truck and opens my door. As soon as I step inside the truck, the smell of gasoline assaults my senses, probably because the tank is behind the cab. There’s also a strong smell of hay, and just a bit of the smell that only Duane has. It reminds me of working on the ranch as a kid.
    My parents owned about ten acres in Arizona. We had horses, cows, chickens and any other damn farm animal you can think of. I learned how to drive a tractor at the age of five, and Dad often joked I could drive the tractor better than I could ride a bike.
    I can still smell the freshly-cut grass in the hot summers. Back then life was simple. I’d hop on a horse and ride until the sun went down. I’d spend hours in the barn with my chestnut gelding, Skip. There would be times when my parents would fight all through the night, and I’d escape to the barn and sleep in his stall. He was my buddy.
    The driver door opens, and Duane gets behind the wheel. “Ready?”
    “As I’ll ever be,” I