“We can talk,” I say instead. “I can’t sit on that thing.” A bright red flush has crept up her neck and stained her cheeks. She re-braided her hair in the truck, but a strand’s come loose, and she’s winding it tight around her finger. “Why not?” I try to smile. Let her know I mean no harm. I’m not really a smiler, though. She kind of grimaces in response. “Can’t we have a conversation?” Her blush darkens. “I can’t. It stinks.” It’s leather. It smells good. I draw in a deep breath. All I smell is her—her warm deliciousness and her tart displeasure. I almost like her scent better with an edge.
