That Blue Eyed Boy
Автор
Kataya Winston
Прочтений
985K
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63
Meeting Him
STELLA
“Miss, we’re getting ready to land stateside, I need you to put your seat upright, please,” the friendly flight attendant says, waking me from my nap that I started about two hours ago. The first leg of my journey from Panama back to Georgia was a quick flight into Puerto Rico, where I then caught my connecting flight to Atlanta.
I haven’t seen my dad since graduation, and that was nearly two months ago. Then again, I hadn’t seen my mom since two years before graduation, so I guess in the scheme of things, two months is nothing.
My parents divorced when I was thirteen after my mom had an affair with her boss at the big corporation she worked at in the city, away from Dad and his farm every other week.
After they divorced, Mom remarried almost immediately, and she and her new husband moved to Panama with my sister Bryndle. She is now the CEO of the company that her husband owns.
I guess you could say she’s pretty successful, considering I’m leaving a mansion on the beach in Panama to return to my little fifth-generation cattle farm in the middle of nowhere Georgia, but my dad needs me. This is the longest I’ve ever been away from him.
I lean across the woman in the first-class seat sitting beside me with her face mask on so I can open the window and see Georgia’s landscape, but I’m disappointed when I feel our wheels touch down in Atlanta. I was hoping we’d still be up high enough that I could pretend to see our little farm clear across the state.
As soon as we’ve taxied into our gate and are allowed to unload off the plane, I hurry to the baggage claim, excited to see my dad, who made the long drive to Atlanta to pick me up. While I wait for the conveyor belt to start moving, I keep looking around the airport for my dad, but I don’t see him. Maybe he’s running late.
I run my fingers through my light-blonde waves that have seen a lot of sun and sand these past two months and grab my purple bag that was one of the first few off the plane. I continue walking through the pickup area, getting worried because I don’t see my dad.
My cowboy boots clank on the stone floor, and I stop, looking around me when I hear my name being yelled. “Stella!” A man’s voice booms, coming from somewhere to my right.
I don’t recognize it as my dad, though. I finally connect the voice with a man in a pair of tight Wranglers and square-toed cowboy boots with a dirty cream Stetson on his head and a light-blue, long-sleeve button-down.
I frown as I look at the man approaching me, not recognizing him. Hell, he’s as hot as the sun, but Dad did always teach me to be wary of strangers.
“Are you Stella Hawkley?” he asks.
I nod at the man when he stops a few feet in front of me, studying me. “That’s the name my daddy gave me,” I say in my thick Southern drawl when he doesn’t seem to be planning on saying anything else.
“My name is Beau Morris, and your daddy sent me to pick you up. He had a last-minute cattle auction catch his attention, and since I’m the stable hand, he sent me here,” the man named Beau claims, reaching for my suitcase.
“My daddy has never had a hired hand in his life,” I accuse, narrowing my eyes.
“Well, since you left him high and dry during the haying season, I suspect he had to make a few adjustments, seeing as how the two of us could barely keep up with all the work,” Beau replies, not missing a beat or batting an eye.
“Well, since you seem to know him so well, what’s his favorite horse’s name?” I ask, pulling the suitcase back again when he reaches for it.
“She’s a palomino mare named Faith. Now can we please go? It’s a long drive back, and I’d like to get there to finish chores before sundown if that’s okay with you,” Beau says matter-of-factly. He swiftly grabs my suitcase, leaving me no choice but to follow him.
Beau leads me to an early nineties Dodge flatbed that has a bench seat and half of a backseat that he tosses my suitcase into when he climbs in. I have to do a little hop to get my ass in the seat, but as soon as I’m in the truck, I spot my favorite hat, a black Stetson my dad gave me for my sixteenth birthday.
“My hat!” I exclaim, grabbing it off the dash and slapping it on my head.
“Your dad told me to bring it. He thought you might’ve missed it,” Beau says, maneuvering his way out of the airport parking lot before heading toward I-75.
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