Chapter Five
Star-struck. That was the word for it.
Or maybe just complete stupidity.
Zeke knew he wasn’t the most talkative guy around. But he wasn’t some callow kid, either, unable to come up with the most basic level of polite conversation.
Until he ended up in a pickup truck with Sophie Daniels.
Then I turn into a babbling idiot.
One who insists on calling the movie star I just met by her full name, even in my mind.
Somehow, calling her Sophie seemed too familiar.
Zeke decided to try “Ms. Daniels,” instead.
Luckily, Ms. Daniels didn’t seem to mind his idiocy—though she had insisted on “Sophie.” She’d laughed, but not in a cruel way, and he found himself as enchanted by her voice in person as he’d been in the movie theater.
And now, she was wandering around his new home running her fingers lightly over everything as she examined it. For the first time, he tried to see Necessity through the eyes of people who hadn’t lived here their whole lives. One day ago, he’d loved the tiny cabin, with its history—it had been on the land for over a hundred years. Now as he looked around, all he could see was how worn the place was. His work boots sitting on the porch just outside the door where his mother had always insisted he leave them seemed tacky instead of practical. When he opened the screen door for Sophie Daniels and ushered her in, the first thing he saw was his dirty coffee cup sitting on the table from this morning, still full from when Colton had shown up to talk him into going to the film set. Even the table it rested on was used and battered, furniture that had been inside this house for decades, probably.
But Ms. Daniels—Sophie—simply said, “Wow,” and made a circuit of the room, as if she were riding fences to see what needed fixing and what could be left alone.
Zeke shook his head. What an odd image for him to have of her—she wouldn’t be assessing his home for repairs, for crying out loud.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, finally remembering the rules of politeness that his mother and grandmother had worked so hard to drill into him. “I have coffee or iced tea. It’s sweet. The tea, I mean.”
She glanced up from where she was running her hand back and forth across his grandmother’s quilt Zeke kept tossed over the back of the couch—mostly because it covered up the parts of the sofa that were getting a little threadbare. “Yes, please,” she said. “I don’t often have anything with real sugar in it. But I’ve heard all my life about Southerners and their ‘sweet tea’.”
Zeke managed to contain his snort as he moved toward the tiny kitchen. As he put ice in glasses and poured the tea over it, he called out into the other room, “Where are you from originally?”
“I grew up in the Pacific Northwest—Oregon, mostly, but Washington State, too.”
Zeke strolled back out of the kitchen and handed her one of the glasses with a grin. “Well, if you’re going to spend much time in Texas, one thing you need to know is that we don’t exactly consider ourselves Southerners.”
Her startled blink reminded him of one of the calves he’d had to bring in recently to have its leg checked. It had given him that same surprised look when he’d cut it off from the rest of the herd and forced it into a trailer.
I probably shouldn’t mention that resemblance out loud. She probably wouldn’t want to be compared to a baby cow.
This bizarre encounter was making his head spin—making him think in ways he usually wouldn’t.
Well, okay—to be entirely honest, he was thinking exactly the same way he always did. He usually was better at remembering not to say it out loud, however. He’d had to stop himself at least three times since he met Sophie Daniels in person.
“So what do you consider yourselves?” Sophie asked.
It took him a second to drag his mind back to the conversation they were having. Oh, right. Texans as Southerners. “We like to think of ourselves as a breed apart. If you have to call us anything other than Texan, Southwesterner will do.”
She nodded, her dark brown eyes searching his face for something. If he had known what it was she was looking for, he would’ve done his very best to give it to her right then and there—he might as well have been watching her on a movie screen, the way she filled up everything he could see at the moment.
He blinked, trying to shake himself out of what felt like it might be some sort of impending trance.
“Is there anyone you need to call?” he asked. “My cell phone’s still in the truck, but it doesn’t always get reception out here, anyway.” He gestured to an end table with an old-fashioned landline on it. “Maybe you can call someone and find out what the plan is for the rest of the day?”
At that, Sophie Daniels began worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth—almost as if she were nervous.
And there he was, using her full name every time he thought of her.
Her mouth firmed up as if she were coming to some kind of decision. Reaching her hand out as if to touch him, but never quite making contact, she ushered him toward the living room.
“Do you mind if we talk for a minute?”
“That would be fine,” he said bemusedly.
She led him around to the front of the sofa, where she took a seat. He followed her lead, then sat there, waiting for her to speak. “Was there something you wanted to say to me?” he finally asked when he could no longer stand her silence.
“Yes, actually.” She chewed on her lip a bit longer. “You’ve already been so kind to me, and so helpful. I hate to ask for more.”
“But?”
“But I have another favor to ask.”