MacKenzie Fire(7)

I put it down and step out of the bathroom. “Yeah, right,” I say, following him, stopping when I reach his doorway. “I’ll bet the women you usually go out with wear the stuff they buy in the grocery store. That stuff gives new meaning to the word eau de toilette, you know.” I lift my chin and sniff, confident in the knowledge that I am way more sophisticated than any girl he’s ever been with.

“Yeah,” he says without even glancing my way, as he pulls a baseball hat out of his dresser drawer and puts it on his head. “It’s called soap.” He moves the hat up and down. “You should try it sometime.”

“Not your color,” I say, ignoring his insult. I won’t even dignify that comment with a response. I use soap. Very nice soap, in fact. It’s got lavender essential oils, also from France.

He frowns and pulls the blue ball cap off his head, staring at it. “What’s wrong with the color?”

I roll my eyes and stride into the room, yanking the hat out of his hands. We’re both standing in front of his mirror over his dresser looking at his reflection. His hair is slightly skewed and his expression is disbelief mixed with shock. I love this look of confusion on him, since he always seems supremely confident, but I’d never tell him that.

I hold the cap up next to his head with one hand and point to his cheek with the other. “You are a summer person, not a winter person. That means you should stick with warm colors.” I shake the hat for emphasis. “This is a cool color. It clashes with your complexion.” I put it back in his drawer and dig around to find another one. He has an impressive collection. I pull the best one out, slap it onto his head, and look in the mirror with him. “See?” I take the old one back out of the drawer and hold it up next to his head so he can see the difference. “Way better, right?”

He twists his mouth up and grabs the hat out of my hand. Taking the other one off and tossing it over his shoulder, he slaps the old one back on. “Nah. This one’s better.”

“Do you argue just for the sake of arguing?” My hands are on my hips.

“Do you always butt your nose into other people’s business without being invited?” He slams his drawer shut.

“I have a degree in fashion, for your information. And since you’re Andie’s brother-in-law, I have a moral obligation to keep you from walking out of this house looking like a half-wit.”

He stops at his doorway on the way out, looking down at me from under the brim of his hat, his glowing green eyes staring right at me for the first time. Normally he looks at me kind of sideways, and now I know why. Power like he has should be used sparingly, if for no other reason than for the sake of my blood pressure. I’m too young to have a stroke.

“I thought you cut hair,” he says.

I can’t help the small thrill that runs through me at the idea that he remembered what I do for a living. I would have sworn he didn’t know or care. “I do. And I give fashion advice, even when it’s pretty much a hopeless case and people don’t appreciate it. You should listen to me, you know. I know what I’m talking about.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. He might be smiling too, but it’s hard to tell since he’s already gone.

“Where are you off to?” I ask, rushing to the door in time to see his back disappearing down the stairs. I’m a little breathless, but it’s not from exercise. My, oh my, he can be really cute when he wants to be.

“Nowhere you’d like to be,” he says.

For some reason letting Ian get the last word is not acceptable to me. My first reaction with him is to argue every point. Why that is, I don’t know, but there’s no use denying it. I’m normally not the argumentative type, but something about his attitude makes me want to duke it out with him. Besides, how does he know where I’d like to be? Maybe I’d like to be exactly where he’s going.

I run into my room and pull on my super cute cowgirl boots. I totally splurged on these babies. They’re embroidered all over in several colors and the leather is a dark purple with a natural finish making it look a little mottled. They’re vintage cowgirl awesome, and I am totally ready to take this town by storm when I have these on.

“Wait up!” I yell as I run from my room. “I’m coming with you!” My feet clomp a lot louder than I’m used to as the heels of my boots bang against the floors. Normally I’m practically a ballerina the way I flit and float everywhere.

“No you’re not!” he yells back, slamming the front door on his way out.

I snag my short leather coat off the hook by the door as I run past, making it to the porch in time to see him climb up into his truck. He must have run across the yard or something. What a jerk.

“Wait!” I yell, holding out my hand like I’m hailing a taxi. I go down the porch steps at lightning speed and am ready to take off like the sprinter I used to be in high school.

Only problem is, I’m not exactly wearing my running shoes. I soon learn the hard way that awesome vintage cowgirl boots do not have a hell of a lot of traction. Or any at all, actually.

One second I’m pedaling in reverse getting nowhere while my arms are pinwheeling out at my sides, and the next I’m on my back, staring up at the grey sky. My head hurts something awful. I’m pretty sure I hit it on a boulder.

The engine to the truck goes on, rumbles and revs, and then a few seconds later it stops making sounds completely. I’m not sure if Ian’s still here or if he took off so fast he’s already halfway up the mountain. I’m afraid to lift my head and check. I could possibly be paralyzed.