I swear to God I didn’t sabotage Bear’s truck, but I have to admit, the fact that he’s staring forlornly at a flat feels like a gift from the universe.
“Want some help with that?” I ask.
His eyes come up. “Oh, hey, Hanna,” he says, and beams at me. Which is really freaking gratifying. “I can change it, no prob.” Of course he can; he’s Bear Warden! “But I’m five minutes late for an appointment in town. Do you think you could drop me at the Depot Hotel? I can get a ride back here afterwards.”
“Absolutely,” I say.
“Nice truck,” he says, climbing up. “I have a special place in my heart for a woman who drives a pickup.”
I can feel myself blushing as I start the engine, then back out. Not all guys feel that way, I can tell you that. I think there’s something to that whole thing about how guys are compensating for size anxiety with their trucks… but Bear seems chill… which is maybe because he doesn’t have any compensating to do.
I guess you could say I have a special place in my heart for guys who have special places in their hearts for women who drive pickups.
Bear takes up a lot of space in my truck, which makes it feel small for the first time in its history. Also, he smells like wool and cookstove oil and the end of a long day at the office, which is…
Not as awesome as you might think.
But probably just temporary. I am 100 percent sure he’s going to take a long hot shower and use obscene amounts of Irish Spring, Prell, and Old Spice.
“Hey, Han?” he asks, as we pull onto the road to town.
I like that he’s picked up my friends’ nickname for me. “Yeah?”
“I have a… question for you.”
“A… question?”
I don’t mean to mimic his words, but the seriousness in his voice has hijacked the word part of my brain, like when I was in middle school and a boy tried to talk to me.
Come to think of it, not much has changed. Still totally deer in the headlights.
Easton and I so should have practiced this. I’m fine when I don’t like the guy in question, but as soon as the stakes go up, I freeze.
I make a note: Practice all things that might come up and require a semi-smooth, semi-human response from me, vis-a-vis Bear and dating.
“I was hoping maybe we could get to know each other a little better. Spend some time together—in and out of the woods.”
There’s the can’t-breathe, heart-kicking-up sensation. In and out of the woods sounds deliciously sexy.
“I—I’d like that.”
“Aw, good,” he says. “I was kinda hoping. How would you feel about dinner Saturday night?”
“I’d feel good about that.”
He nods. “There’s this place in Bend that specializes in forage and farm-to-table.”
“That sounds… amazing.”
I roll my eyes, internally, at myself. Apparently, no matter how down to earth you think you are, the right guy can still ruin your vocabulary.
“Great!” Bear says buoyantly. “Cypress can get some footage ahead of time so they can focus on just filming us on Saturday.”
Whoa. What? “Filming… us…?”
“Oh, shit,” Bear says. “I wasn’t thinking. I should have asked first. Are you okay with Cypress documenting it?”
“Documenting it?”
“It goes with the territory with me, unfortunately,” he says. “I mean, not all the time, but I do end up living certain aspects of my life in public. In this case, I was thinking it would make sense, because my viewers really like you, and they’re shipping us.”
“Shipping? Us?”
I’m really just helplessly repeating his words, not trying to question the premise, but it sounds a little like I’m doubting the possibility of what he’s saying.
“You know, wanting us to be together.”
“Yeah, I know what shipping is, I just—”
I still don’t have words.
“I guess I was just hoping we could give my viewers a little window on our first date. Not much. Just a few video clips of us enjoying each other’s company.”
Our first date.
Kinda loving that, especially the implication that he’s already thinking about more than one.
But dating on camera?
Huh.
“I don’t know,” I say slowly. I mean, I get it. It does go with the territory if you’re someone like Bear Warden, especially if you’re Bear Warden going on a date with someone his viewers already know and like.
“I don’t want you to feel pressured into it. I know it makes some women nervous. But you seem so comfortable with yourself, and with the cameras. And you’re very beautiful. You must know that.”
“I. Uh. Thank you.”
I spend a second or two trying to figure out how I feel about this beautiful, noting that for some reason it doesn’t pack the same punch as pretty.
But he thinks I’m beautiful. Which, win!! So yeah. I let myself revel in that.
“If there’s anything you want to cut afterwards, anything that feels too personal, you can always tell me. No questions asked.”
I want to say, What about kissing? Will Cypress film us kissing?
Because I’m running a film montage in my head: Bear, hugging me as I arrive at the restaurant, pulling out my chair for me as we both laugh at something witty I’ve said, reaching across the table to hold my hand, pouring a little more wine into my glass. Leaning in and touching his plush lips to mine.
We look good together. I’m beautiful. And his viewers love us.
That doesn’t suck.
“Cypress can film,” I tell him. “As long as you promise to cut any clip where I trip all over myself like a dope.”
For some reason, an imaginary version of Easton interjects, No fucking way. Those are the best parts. I swallow a snicker.
“I just can’t imagine you doing anything like a dope,” Bear says, his voice warm.
Aw.
Also, he doesn’t know me very well yet.
Town comes into view. Rush Creek has a strong Western feel—low slung buildings with long plank siding, bright-colored doors, and shutters. At some point during the transformation from rodeo town to girls’ getaway, the chamber of commerce installed flower baskets and Craftsman-style faux gas lamps everywhere, giving all of Rush Creek the feel of a made-for-TV small-town movie.
I turn from South Street onto Main Street, past Rush to Read Books, Morning Rush Coffee, and Rush Creek Bakery. Like most Rush Creek denizens, I’m nostalgic for the rodeo days… but I have to admit, I admire how the town has adapted to its new identity.
I pull up in front of the Depot Hotel, with its aggressively Western-styled front porch.
“Text me your address and I’ll pick you up at 6:15 on Saturday,” he says. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”
By the time I can ponder whether “nervously anticipating, with some doubts” counts as “looking forward to,” and therefore whether I can truthfully say, “me too,” he’s out of the truck and gone.