Page 15 of Spicy Ever After
My eyes snap open and I stiffen.
He immediately lets go, throwing up his hands. “Sorry… Sorry… But you don’t want to sit down in an alley.” Then he points a thumb toward his truck. “My truck’s dirty, but it’s clean dirt.”
Watery-eyed, I stare at the open tailgate and register that is, in fact, quite dirty when it hits me that he’s offering me a seat.
“May I?”
I look back at him. He’s holding out his hands like he’s carrying an invisible blanket.
I sniffle, tears still spilling. “May you what?”
He tilts his head to the side, something in his expression softening in a way that’s also… interesting. “Give you a boost?”
The thought is so ridiculous, I snort. “You couldn’t pick me u?—"
The words aren’t before he unceremoniously clamps his hands at my waist and lifts me onto the tailgate.
Like I weigh no more than a cotton ball.
I blink at Farm Boy, the shock of being airlifted onto a truck tailgate sending my sobs into hiccups.
The last three minutes have been the most confusing of my life. Margaret is leaving. Mom and Dad might want to send me away. I’m in a restaurant’s back alley, sitting in the back of a sweet potato truck, staring hypocritically at a Farm Boy.
I blame brain-overload for the question I croak.
“W-why… did you…?”
A gentle smile reaches his eyes, which are amber.
Amber.
Amber is not orange, but it’s the closest human eyes can get.
Despite being a distant cousin to orange, his amber eyes are not cheerful. They look sort of sad.
“My truck may need a wash, but no one’s taken a piss in it. Can’t say the same for this alley.” He wrinkles his nose, which is just a little sunburned but otherwise flawless. Not too long. Not too skinny.
I don’t like long, skinny noses.
Grandma Eloise has a long, skinny nose.
I have met few kind, patient people with long, skinny noses.
I swallow. “Th-thank you.” The words are still thick. Still shaky. I want to stop crying, but my eyes and my lungs and my heart haven’t quite gotten the memo.
Farm Boy shakes his head. “I wasn’t about to let your day get any worse.” He tilts his head. “Though your dress might still be ruined.”
“That’s okay. I hate this dress.”
His amber eyes flash, and I think he’s trying not to smile. “You… hate your dress?”
I swipe at the tears which are in the way of me taking in all his colors. And there are a lot besides his sunburned nose, his sun-bleached brows, and the not-orange-but-amber of his eyes.
Whereas my hair is technically a chestnut brown that is made up of a lot of different browns, his hair is blond but made up of so many different blonds. Golden. Straw. Flaxen. Birchwood. Maybe more, but I don’t have time to count.
And his skin is a walnut bronze.
Except for the sunburn on his nose.
