I should have brought a picnic basket. That would fit my look so much better.

I pull the enormous Life of Riley truck into the Hill of Beans parking lot. Like everything in Old Town, Hill of Beans is in a hundred-year-old building along a street never intended for modern traffic. Everything is too narrow, and I have to thread this behemoth between buildings to reach the back lot. By the time I’ve parked, I already resent Brandon. I’m tired. I really will have to get out of the truck, as opposed to hitting Starbucks, which has a nice, wide drive-through and sits on a more contemporary street.

But as I’m about to unbuckle, the passenger door opens and Brandon is climbing into the cabin, drink carrier in hand. He settles then takes one of the two cups and extends it toward me.

“Do you drink coffee?”

I look down. It’s like he’s given me a million dollars. Or a puppy. Or an orgasm in a paper cup. I take it eagerly, resisting the urge to pour the desperately needed fuel down my throat.

“Yes! Thank you.”

“I didn’t know if you’d want it with cream or what, so I got a bunch.” He shakes a small paper bag he’d balanced in the carrier. I take it and doctor my coffee. He’s managed the perfect recipe: three little creamers, two packets of Equal, and a stirrer. Literally nothing goes to waste.

I sip the coffee. I know it’s all in my head, but the first tablespoon that drips into me is like liquid energy. I feel instantly better. More alive. I give him a genuine smile, hopefully not too much like a cute zombie.

I turn to look properly at Brandon. He’s worn a dress shirt and slacks. It’s not nearly as fine as yesterday’s suit, but he certainly looks like a pro.

He looks at me and says, “Margo told me to dress down. Didn’t she tell you to dress down?”

I actually look away. I almost say, Oh, you mean this old dress? Instead I say, “You don’t seem dressed down.”

“Dressed down more than you.” He’s looking me over. His eyes spend too much time on my legs.

“You’re not dressed down at all.”

“We might have to hike through weeds.”

“Good thing I’m in a summery dress, perfect for skipping through meadows then.” It’s not a bad answer. But Margo did tell me to dress down because we’d be off site and trekking through undeveloped land. I think her specific advice was to wear jeans and boots. I’m not sure why I didn’t listen. I must be exhausted.

Brandon shrugs. I catch a flash of his blue eyes before he looks away.

He sips his coffee. I catch myself looking at his arms, wondering back at the things Phoebe said about watching him shirtless.

“Don’t you have a bag?” I ask.

“Bag?”

“Weren’t you working?”

It takes him a minute to understand, but then he looks away again. I’d assumed he’d come here with something — a computer, papers to peruse, something he’d be working on before I’d shown up. But he has nothing.

“I just wanted to get a cup of coffee,” he says.

“I told Margo it’d have been easier to drive through Starbucks.”

“I wanted Hill of Beans.”

“Is this on the way? Starbucks is on the way. I could have picked you up at your place.”

“Jesus!” he snaps. “Starbucks? Really? How about supporting our local businesses?”

I blink. He’d seemed so quiet yesterday, but today the guy’s touchy. Maybe he’s not an early riser, either.

I don’t respond. I’m annoyed by his holier-than-thou dig at my sense of town pride, but I guess I can give him the benefit of the doubt.

I press the brake, wishing he’d be chivalrous and offer to drive but not willing, after that burst of snippiness, to ask. I have the seat almost all the way up and can still barely reach the pedals.

As I start the arduous process of turning around in the small Hill of Beans back lot, I catch Brandon looking at me. I jockey back and forth, exaggerating the difficulty with much sighing and grunting so he’ll get the point and relieve me. He never stops watching.

By the time the truck is fully turned, annoyance has replaced fatigue. Brandon not offering to take the wheel now feels like an affront, and every second he refuses to help is like giving me the finger.

“What?” I snap.

Brandon’s head flicks away, his gaze now out the windshield.

“Nothing.”

“You keep looking at me. Is something wrong?”

“No.”

But I’m sure there is. He’s been assessing my dress, which has ridden up on the truck’s seat. He’s seeing my insensible footwear. He’s probably noticing the way I did my hair and put on some makeup. I don’t wear much jewelry, but I’m sure that right now my small silver hoop earrings look overly delicate. I must seem naive to him — a girl out of her element.

I’ll bet he even talked to my father. In fact, that’s probably what all of this is about. I told Dad I was ready to start work at the company I hoped to one day take over, but instead of being proud of me and explaining Life of Riley’s profit model, he essentially patted me on the head and gave me a token job suited for ill-prepared, silly-little-rich-girl college kids recently home from school and deluded about their futures. He says I’m an all-purpose intern so I can learn the ropes from the bottom, but let’s face it: I’m here to fill space. To stay occupied. To have something to do during the day, before I go to the clubs and dance all night with cute guys who my silly little brain can’t help but giggle endlessly over.

Dad probably sent me to pick up Brandon so he could keep an eye on me.

Now, Brandon, don’t expect too much from her. She’s just back from school and is feeling all bright-eyed and overly optimistic. She’ll want to help, but make sure you watch her if she tries. Supposedly, she has her degree in business, but let’s face it — that’s just because the college board knows me. Keep her safe. Make sure she doesn’t twist an ankle out there. The ridiculous little thing will probably do something absurd, like show up for a survey in sandals and a sundress. 

My jaw has been sliding back and forth, assessing Brandon as he looks through the windshield. I watch him swallow, as if he’s afraid of me.

Finally, I slide the transmission into drive, and we pull out of the lot, onto the street, turning toward the lands outside Old Town, between the historic center and Cherry Hill.

“Why do you wear that beard?” My voice sounds angry in my ears. The question is clearly loaded — spoken as more than an idle query — but I don’t care. If he and my father are going to discuss me behind my back, I’m allowed to be bothered. And if he’s not going to offer to drive the truck like a man, I’m allowed to be gruff. I keep both hands on the big wheel. I want to drink more of the coffee, but now it seems tainted.

“I just like having a beard.” His eyes flick toward me then away. I don’t like that gaze. But I also kind of want him to keep doing it.

“It makes you look like a lumberjack. What successful person has a beard?”

“Richard Branson.”

The question was supposed to be rhetorical. I’m irritated that he answered, especially so fast.

“If you really want to get the vice presidency, you should shave it.”

“Why?”

“It’s unprofessional.”

“It’s hair.”

“It doesn’t look right for a vice president.”

“Now you’re judging me on my appearance,” he says. “What if I were black?”

“That’s not remotely the same.”

“Sure it is.”

“No it’s not! I am not racist!”

“You’re just beardist.”

He’s really annoyed me. He’s really, really, really annoyed me. I need to stay angry. I don’t like being called a racist. Not that he called me one. But he made the analogy. In order to point out that I’m a total beardist.

I catch movement in the corner of my eyes and look over to see him looking at me — but this time, at my face.