“Because I do like you.”
“Really?”
“That’s the problem,” he rushed to add. “I don’t want to like you.”
She felt a little hurt that he didn’t want to like her, but she pretended it rolled right off her shoulders. “Any particular reason why?”
“You’re hard to keep up with.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ve got a quicksilver mind.”
“Is that a compliment or a complaint?”
“Just an observation.”
“What does quicksilver mean, exactly?”
“Changing unpredictably.”
“I don’t do that.”
“You do,” he disagreed.
“Oh, look.” She pointed at the red sports car that sped by them in the fast lane. “A Porsche Boxster. I always wanted one of those.”
“If you were in school these days they’d probably diagnose you with ADHD and put you on Ritalin.”
Tara pursed her lips in thought. “Probably. I took home all kinds of notes telling my parents I was a chatterbox who couldn’t sit still.”
That got a smile from him. It was small, but it was a smile and damn if she didn’t feel pleased as punch. “Some things never change.”
“Let me guess what kinds of notes you took home from school.” Tara tapped her index finger against her chin. “‘Dear Mr. Toliver, Boone dusts the erasers far too hard when he’s playing teacher’s pet.’”
“I didn’t get notes in school.”
Tara laughed. “Why am I not the least bit surprised?”
“You know,” he said, “this isn’t so bad.”
“What isn’t?”
“Being trapped in a car with you.”
“You thought it was going to be bad?”
“Well, yeah,” he admitted. “I mean, we don’t get along at the best of times and a cross-country road trip is definitely not the best of times.”
“What do you mean, we don’t get along? I thought we got along famously.”
“You did?”
“Sure.”
“Lemonade,” he mumbled.
“I know you don’t really mean it when you get all grumbly. You just don’t want anyone seeing you with your guard down so you push people away. I don’t take it personally.”
“You forgive everyone.” He sounded amazed. “Do you take anything personally?”
“Meredith Moncu,” she said.
Boone frowned. “I’m not following.”
“Meredith Moncu. I took her personally.”
“Who is Meredith Moncu?”
“My high school rival. She was always beating me out for everything. Head cheerleader—”
“You were a cheerleader?”
“Hustle! Get to it! Gators, let’s do it!” Tara cheered.
Boone groaned good-naturedly. “I had to ask.”
“Get fired up! Let’s go! Have at it! Let’s roll!” She clapped and pantomimed raised pompoms over her head.
“Hands on the wheel, Duvall.” He grabbed for the steering wheel.
She warded him off with her elbow. “I’ve got it under control. Settle down.”
“Not my strong suit.”
“What? Letting go of control?”
“Yeah.”
“You should work on that.”
“What else did Meredith Moncu beat you out of?”
“Class president.”
“High school politics? Seriously, you dodged a bullet.”
“She also stole my first boyfriend. Bobby Joe Harding.”
“Bobby Joe? Sounds like you dodged a bullet there, too.”
“He had a lot of muscles.” She turned her head to assess Boone’s biceps. “But you could have taken him in arm wrestling.”
“Good to know. Whatever happened to Bobby Joe?”
“Oh, he knocked Meredith up and they got married. They have four kids now and live in Buena Vista trailer park down by the railroad tracks.”
“See, you did dodge a bullet.”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have gotten pregnant.”
“Knew a lot about birth control, did you?”
“Nope. I didn’t put out. Which is how Meredith stole him.”
“Really?”
“What part? Meredith putting out, or me not putting out?”
“You.”
“Don’t sound shocked. What? You think I’m Suzie Sleep Around?”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to. Your face did.” She shrugged. “I just wasn’t ready for sex when I was in high school. I wanted to be in love and I wasn’t in love with Bobby Joe.”
“I thought you said you’d never been in love before. If you’ve never been in love, does that mean…”
“I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re asking. Cripes, Boone, I’m twenty-five. After a while…well…a girl has certain needs and her lofty ideals fall by the wayside.”
“I suppose they do,” he said, his voice turning husky.
“I’m old-fashioned, really.”
“You?” Boone hooted. “In what way are you oldfashioned?”
“I believe in marriage, for one thing.”
“Me, too.”
“Even though you’ve been divorced? Even though your mom flaked out on your dad?”
“Even though. What else do you believe in?”
“Waiting until you get married before you have a baby. For me, I mean. I wouldn’t presume to tell other people how to make their choices.”
The car tires strummed along the asphalt.
“You’re not quite what I thought you were,” Boone said after a while.
“The flakey hairstylist syndrome, huh?”
“What’s that?”
“When people hear you’re a hairstylist they assume certain things about you. That you’re arty and creative and impulsive and undependable and have scads of tattoos.”
“And you’re not those things?”
She notched up her chin. “I’m dependable.”
“Do you have any more tattoos? I mean, besides the dolphin.”
She felt the heat of his gaze roll over her. “Would you be disappointed or relieved if I said no?”
He shrugged, didn’t answer. Silence filled