Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“And have an excuse to stab you with a big needle?” she supplies.
I nod. “Yep. And have an excuse to stab me with a big needle. It’s cute. I love it, almost as much as I love those overalls.”
And I really love those overalls. With a red bandana tied in her hair and beat-up Converse that have seen better decades, she looks like a sexy tomboy from a country music video.
I want to bite her.
Right where her neck meets her shoulder, where the overall strap keeps sliding down…
“EpiPen?” she reminds me after I’ve mused a little too long in silence. “You did bring one, didn’t you? We’re going to be out in the middle of nowhere, Parker. If something happens, we won’t be ten minutes from a hospital the way we are here.”
“I did. There’s one in my toiletry bag, and I always have one in the glove compartment. But I haven’t had to use it since I was fourteen. I know how to be careful, don’t worry. This is the no-worries, escape-from-our-troubles trip, remember?”
“I do.” She settles back in her seat, gazing out the window as the sun rises higher in the sky, promising a perfect day. “I can’t wait to eat crawdaddies until my belly drags the ground.”
“Hot,” I murmur, making her laugh again.
It’s good to see her embracing the spirit of the adventure.
For the past two days, she’s been all business—planning routes, booking accommodations, and baking road trip provisions with the focus of someone preparing for war. The one time I tried to bring up Friday night—the kiss, the bathroom, the clear more-than-friendliness happening between us—she’d suddenly remember an urgent need to pack an extra mosquito net and vanish.
I have no idea what rules we’re playing by on this trip, but I’m trying to see that as part of the fun.
Will we make out on that mattress in the back of my truck bed tonight? Or spend the entire evening fighting the sexual tension on the opposite side of the “separation pillow” she packed? We’ll find out in fourteen to sixteen hours, depending on how long it takes the beer and food to put us down for the count.
Three hours later, we’re in the middle of nowhere, finally hitting traffic as we near the fairgrounds where the Mudbug Mayhem Festival is celebrating seventy-five years of honoring the noble crawfish—Louisiana’s tinier, creepier lobster cousin. I’m honestly not a huge fan of crawdaddies—cracking open their tail shell is a lot of effort for a tiny bite—but anything that puts a gleam in Makena’s eye is a winner in my book.
And what’s not to love about a festival with fifteen different food vendors and a crawfish costume contest?
We park in our assigned camping spot at the edge of a massive field, already half full at ten-thirty in the morning. Our closest neighbors are only twenty feet away. But they’re a young family, currently letting their baby crawl around on a blanket in the shade while they make sandwiches, so I’m not worried about the rowdy factor later tonight. I probably won’t have to brawl with anyone before bed, which is good, but not always a given at a Louisiana party.
Especially when people start drinking before lunch…
A group of girls in short shorts and barely-there tank tops wanders by on their way to the entrance, Coors Lights in hand, already giggling in a way that makes me suspect those beers aren’t their first.
Makena clucks her tongue. “Amateurs,” she whispers. “You have to get a base coat of food down before you start with the beer. They’re going to regret their choices later.”
“But we won’t,” I say, patting my stomach. “My biscuity base coat is going to do me proud. You done good, woman.”
She grins. “Thanks. Should we do a loop of the festival before we decide what to start eating first? Is your knee up for it?”
“My knee’s fine,” I say as we start across the field. “I’ve been sitting all morning. I’m ready to explore.”
“Me, too.” There’s a bounce in her step that hasn’t been there in a while, making me certain this trip was what she needed. Whether we decide to date or not, hopefully, our adventure will remind her of all the reasons a bold, brave life lived on her own terms is worth fighting for.
The registration tent is manned by a woman with feathered bangs and a t-shirt that says “I’ll Be Your Crawdaddy” with a picture of a silver fox crawfish smoldering into the camera underneath.
I’m about to ask her where she got it, when Makena breathes, “Oh my God, I love your shirt! Are they for sale anywhere around here?”
“Sure are,” the woman says, smacking her bright pink gum. “My sister, Shelly, and I sell all kinds of fun crawdaddy merch. Our tent is on the far right of the vendor section. Hope y’all will check us out.”