Southern Boy Charm | ✓

Chapter 3

I wake to a loud insistent pounding on my door. Who in the world is knocking this long? I dive my head under the pillow to mute the noise, but to no avail.

"Go away!" I yell, still groggy from my sleep. What time is it anyway? I read the clock and see that it's six in the morning. Why would anyone voluntarily wake up this early?

"We have to go to town," a deep voice calls from the other side of the door, and instantly I know it's Nick. Besides, no one else would wake me up like they're trying to break into my room.

"I'm coming," I groan, taking my sweet time to rise out of bed. If he wanted to wake me up early, then he deserved to wait. Despite the early hour the sun was just out, shining golden rays into my room. The open window billowed crisp air through the sheer curtains, carrying the faint smell of grass and dampness from the morning dew. It's a weird fragrance, but surprisingly comforting, and I can see myself growing to like it already.

"Hurry up!" he calls again, and it takes everything in me not to open the door and give him a piece of my mind. Focus on the positive, I tell myself, and take a deep breath of the country air to try and calm myself down. It works, somewhat, and I am able to throw on a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt without casting some not-so-nice language his way.

When I open the door, I am greeted by his scowling face. His golden hair is wet, making it darker than usual, and he wears a plain white T-shirt with jeans. I narrow my eyes at him "Is this how you wake up all your guests?"

He looks me up and down, his icy gaze almost enough to make me cower from his harsh eyes, before turning away from me and making his way down the hallway, ignoring me. "Maybe next time don't take fifteen minutes to wake up," he calls from behind him.

I scoff, following him down the hallway. "Maybe next time don't wake someone up at six in the morning!"

"You've done nothing but sleep the time that you've been here, so I didn't think you'd have a difficult time waking up."

"How about you spend six hours in a hot car and then tell me how tired you feel?"

He doesn't answer me, instead stalking through the front door, and even though I've got the last word, I can't help but feel like I lost. He stalks to a faded baby-blue pickup truck and slams the driver car door behind him. Yet another temper tantrum.

I hoist myself into the truck, it's height too tall for my five-foot-three stature and closed the door behind me with just as much of a flourish as Nick. Before I can even secure my seat belt he is off, zooming out of the driveway, dirt flying in the air at his tracks.

As we drive down the main road, which was a faded paved two-lane road, I can't help but feel myself relax. Soft country music croons from the radio, some guy singing about a lost love. The passing scenery of green fields, while mundane, is peaceful matched with the soft whipping of the wind against my skin. It's so different here from the suburbs, every house packed together. I can't tell which one I like better, but it's definitely different here, but in a good way.

It takes us forty minutes before more and more buildings begin to appear ahead of us. When he finally parks, I don't want to stop driving. He hops out of the car, and I take that as a cue to leave as well. The store in front of us reads Turnball Hardware, and I can tell by its small size that its family owned.

He walks inside and makes his way straight to the front, his stride full of purpose. He talks to the an at the counter, a middle-aged man with a scruffy brown beard and deep-set crinkles around his eyes. Nick's body gradually loosens as he talks to him, and in a rare moment, he throws his head back and laughs, the sound radiating through the walls.