My goodness, but he was delectable.

My attention snagged on a frothy cloud of white and I saw he was holding a bunch of flowers. My eyes moved between him and the flowers, and I’m sure I looked entirely confounded.

“As I was saying,” Duane took a step toward me and I was struck by the sincerity in both his expression and tone, making me sway just a little at his ominous and heartfelt charm; he whispered, “you look beautiful, Jessica.”

I think I smiled like a smitten simpleton, my eyelashes fluttering of their own accord. “So do you, Duane.”

He smiled. It was small and magnetic. I took a mental snapshot; spending time with him confirmed my suspicion that Duane’s smiles were few and should be treasured.

I swayed toward him again. “Did you get me flowers?”

He shook his head, his voice still low. “No. These are for your momma.”

“My mom—”

“Don’t you leave yet!” Jackson’s voice thundered just as he appeared in the doorway, breaking our lovely moment. I couldn’t help myself, I huffed and rolled my eyes. I loved my big brother, but sometimes I wanted to cover him in honey and send him into a bear cave.

Duane stiffened a little, but he didn’t retreat. He turned from me, his eyes narrowing, and said, “Jack.”

I lifted an eyebrow at this. No one called my brother “Jack.” Everyone called him Jackson, or Officer James.

“Duane.” Jackson crossed his arms over his chest; his expression and voice were mean. “I don’t much like you thinking you can take my sister out.”

“Oh my God,” I said to no one and tugged on Duane’s hand again. “Just ignore him. Let’s go.”

But Duane didn’t move. Instead he used our connected fingers to draw me closer while he and Jackson gave each other the evil eye.

“This might come as a shock to you, Jack, but I’m not losing sleep over your good opinion. Now, are the Sheriff and Mrs. James at home?”

Jackson’s eyes narrowed further. “Why?”

“Because I’d like to pay my respects to the man and woman of the house before we step out.”

Jackson flinched, his eyes widening as they moved up and down Duane.

I took advantage of Jackson’s momentary speechlessness to answer Duane’s question. “No. Momma is still in Texas taking care of my aunt Louisa, and Daddy is on duty.”

Duane glanced at me while I explained, and I thought I saw something like disappointment pass over his handsome features. His disappointment made me feel both guilty as well as warm all over with pleasure.

He’d wanted to talk to my parents before we stepped out. Goodness.

“Oh. Well then…” He frowned as he studied me, then turned back to my brother and pushed the bouquet of flowers into Jackson’s hands. “Go put these in water before they die.”

Wordlessly, Jackson accepted the flowers, though he was still looking at Duane like he was something strange. I didn’t have a moment to dwell on any of this, because Duane pulled my hand into the crook of his elbow and escorted me down the front porch steps. We reached his car without another word between us and he opened the passenger side door. When he was satisfied I was settled, he shut the door and walked around the hood of his car.

My eyes trailed him. I watched him walk. I loved how he walked.

My heart didn’t know whether to sink or swim. All I could think about was that Claire had been right last Wednesday: Duane Winston was looking to court me—good and proper. And now that the evidence was unmistakable, I felt dichotomously dismayed and dazedly giddy by the prospect.

Duane fired up the engine and it was in this dismayed and dazedly giddy haze that I passed the first few moments of our drive. I was quite literally shaken out of my self-reflections when Duane navigated a series of switchbacks with imprudent speed. Even though I was wearing my seatbelt, I slid in my seat to one side then the other.

“Sorry,” he said, pressing gently on the brake to slow our velocity, then cleared his throat and offered by the way of an explanation, “I’m used to taking these roads fast. I didn’t mean to toss you around.”

I braced my arm again the passenger side door. “It’s fine. I just…” I shook my head. “I just wanted to apologize for Jackson, the way he acted. He was being unfair and unkind and we had words earlier. I’m sorry about that.”

Duane shrugged. “Well, he wouldn’t be much of a brother if he wasn’t overprotective. I feel the same way about my sister…” I got the impression he hadn’t quite ended his sentence and was proven right when he finally finished, “and my brothers.”

Duane’s gaze flickered to mine and he gave me a hint of a smile. I melted a bit at his rare smile, and I felt myself relax against the seat.

And that’s when I realized how comfortable the seat was.

And that’s when I finally took the three seconds required to actually look at this car in which I was riding.

It was old, a classic of some sort. The upholstery was teal leather and the seat was a bench style, the kind that allowed a passenger to snuggle up close to the driver.

“Duane Winston, what kind of car is this?”

He was in profile but I saw his smile grow. “It’s a ’68 Plymouth Road Runner.”

I studied the rest of the car, or what I could see of it. The two-door antique had a backseat, similar bench style to the front and everything was in pristine condition.

“It’s kind of small for the time, isn’t it? I mean, weren’t most Plymouths built at that time big old land cruisers?”

Duane’s hands tightened a bit on the steering wheel, his thumb caressing the inside of the circle. “It’s a muscle car, so it’s built for speed.”

I tried to remember what the outside of the car looked like, and could recall only basic lines and shiny black paint. “It doesn’t really look like a muscle car, not like the Mustang.”

“It’s got a 4-barrel carburetor engine, pushing out 335 horsepower—but, you’re right, the Road Runner doesn’t have any of that flashy chrome finish or plush doodads you see with other higher priced GTXs of the same era. It doesn’t need to be showy. Its beauty is in its simplicity. Simple, straightforward design…with hidden depths.” He paired this with an impressive engine growl, and accelerated lightning fast along a straight stretch of road. The car certainly was responsive.

I smiled at that, glancing around the interior once more and noting the lack of fussy trimmings. He was right, it was a stunning car. Its minimalism only contributed to its effortlessness beauty. But I could feel the untapped potential, its restless restrained power. It was sexy as hell.

“You’re right, it’s gorgeous.” Because I was obviously a horndog, talking about the hidden depths and restrained power of his muscle car was getting me hot and bothered. I decided to redirect the conversation toward hopefully benign territory. “Did you restore it yourself?”

“Yep.”

“Even the upholstery?”

“Yes. I restored her myself, even the upholstery.”

“Her?” I passed my hand over the bench, touching the leather with newfound respect and reverence now that I knew Duane was responsible for the flawless restoration. Based on this information, I presumed he’d also restored the Mustang I was borrowing.

I was happy to see his smile return as he halted and idled at a stop sign. Duane slid his pretty eyes to mine; I saw echoes of his hot look from the community center, though it appeared to be mostly restrained. “Yes, her. All cars are girls.”

My smile was huge as I was feeling delightfully unsteady under his perusal. “And why is that? Because they’re so pretty, useful, and hardworking?”

Duane’s eyes drifted down my body in an unhurried examination; the spark of heat and appreciation in his gaze made me suspicious of his true thoughts, which were only punctuated by his next words.

“Because when a guy sees a car he likes, all he can think about is getting under the hood or taking her for a ride.”