“Well?” she begins. “Well, what?” “Which brother are you?” Her lips quirk. “Dopey?” I clench my jaw. “Ford.” Intrigued, her eyebrow arches. “And you’re a mechanic?” “Bartender. Outdoor activities. Ranch hand. Pick your poison.” “Oh,” she sniffs. That’s right, honey. I’m too low class for you. Not your type and you know it. For some reason, it makes me feel like shit. She’s a city girl. Even the fake country accent she puts on riles my nerves.
