Hunter nodded sharply, suddenly tearing away his gaze to stare at something fascinating on the ground. Was that a hint of pink I saw in his cheeks? He’d never been squeamish about girl things before now. And really, the bikini I’d worn when we went camping together with our families two years ago wasn’t much different from this sports bra. Still, it had been fascinating to see Hunter go all Hulk-like and then revert to a blushing Bruce Banner impression in such a short amount of time. It kind of made me wonder what other new sides of him I’d see this week.
“There you are, Charlotte. Ms. Gentry sent me to come get you.” Sarah Claiborne strolled up beside me, looking impeccably dry and put together. Her quick and disapproving look up and down my body had me wanting nothing more than to find a mirror and fix whatever disaster had happened to my hair. But when her attention turned to Hunter, her lips immediately curved into an alluring smile. “Hi, Hunter. How’s my favorite bull rider?”
“Hi, Sarah.” He rubbed the back of his head and squinted at her. “Fine, thanks.”
Alarms went off in my head. This was getting serious. Sarah had never so much as said five words to Hunter before he moved away. She’d lived in her popular world and we lived in ours. The fact that she was constantly putting on the charm around him was making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“Maybe I’ll see you around,” she said, wrapping her long fingers around my upper arm with enough force to strangle a cat. She pulled me toward the direction of the pavilion, a smile still glued to her face. “I’d love to learn all about bull riding some time.”
“Uh...okay...sure.” He shot her an unsure smile, and then glanced at me. I knew that look. He was asking me if the world had suddenly flipped upside down.
“See you later,” I said with a wave, giving into Sarah’s pull. “And thanks for the shirt!”
Sarah dropped her hand from my arm and marched silently beside me. It wasn’t until the pavilion came into view with the other girls sitting at the picnic tables did she finally turn to me.
“Your friend. He’s single, right?”
The ground tilted beneath me. My dreadful suspicions had been confirmed. In what world was Sarah Claiborne attracted to Hunter McNally? So much for things not changing. That was all I needed—my enemy dating my best friend. Life would never go back to normal.
“Um...I don’t know...maybe not...” I grumbled.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t a very good liar. Add it to the list of things I didn’t have the talent for.
Sarah laughed and quirked her brow at me. “Nice try, Lottie. Even if I did believe that, you know it wouldn’t stop me.”
Yep, I did know that, but it hadn’t kept me from trying.
With a deep breath for courage, I turned toward her with the full intention of demanding that she stay away from Hunter. It would be a new thing for me. I wasn’t used to standing up to her. But I didn’t get the chance. She marched right past me, taking a seat next to Geminia at a picnic table.
The harsh look on Ms. Gentry’s face told me there was no time for a fight and I was already in the dog house. If I wanted to stay in this competition, I was going to have to wait until later to tell Sarah just how wrong Hunter was for her.
And besides, Hunter would never be into someone like her. I knew him better than that. She was barking up the wrong tree.
But then again, it was becoming clear that a lot of things had changed with Hunter over the last year.
I could only hope that wasn’t one of them.
Chapter Eight
I thought washing sheep was bad. This was worse.
Way worse.
Mom hadn’t been kidding when she said she’d sign me up for that basket weaving class at the library. She’d driven me over here this evening in her van and practically shoved me out the door with an order to bring home my fabulous creation so she could proudly display it on her hutch at home.
I probably could’ve used my spontaneous entry into the Junior Rodeo Queen competition this morning as a trade-off to get out of it, but for some reason, I hadn’t mentioned it to her.
Part of me was still unsure about this whole operation. It was so not me. I’d already made a fool of myself once. Who knew washing sheep was so difficult?
Maybe it wasn’t too late to back out. The stiff and disapproving Ms. Gentry might have me assassinated, but that was a risk I was willing to take. Public humiliation in front of an entire arena of Rock Valley citizens was not.
Not that this basket weaving class didn’t contain plenty of embarrassment of its own. Everyone here was at least three times my age. One shriveled old man had to be nearing a hundred. The teacher was a hippy by the name of Joey with stringy brown hair, a goatee, and an accent that made me think he’d spent several years living in a tent on a beach and catching waves.
“You gotta feel the flow of the basket, dudes,” he said, walking around the group to observe as we attempted to build our own baskets. This was, of course, after a lengthy explanation about the artistic nature of grasses and a lecture about feng shui thrown in there for funsies.
The woman next to me had her heart set on making an elaborate picnic basket. I’d opted for the least time-intensive version. Mine was a basket for a family of mice. Well, it would have been, if I could actually weave it correctly. It was probably better fit for the trash. Not even the mice would want it. But despite
