I rolled my eyes. “If it’s easier, we could just not talk.”
“Nah, that’s definitely not easier for me. I like to talk. I like to talk so much, sometimes I find myself carrying on one-sided conversations with the cattle,” he said, as Old Bessie hit a pot hole that made me bounce a good foot in the air. Apparently modern conveniences like paved and maintained roads were not so “modern” or “convenient” out here. “I’m a pretty good listener, too. You know, if you ever have anything you want to open up about.”
I groaned and contemplated shoving his arm. I didn’t though because, judging from the size of his arms and knowing those arms could lift my bag like it was a two-pound dumbbell, my weakling shove wouldn’t even register.
“How about a little harmless Q and A?” Jesse suggested. “You ask me a question. I ask you one. Round and round we go until we get to Willow Springs.”
I was opening my mouth when Jesse cut back in.
“Don’t worry. We’ll keep the questions as impersonal as possible.” Studying my face for a moment, he quirked a brow. “That work for you, Miss Very Complicated?”
Only because I was already exhausted from going back and forth with him did I nod.
Jesse smiled like he’d just pulled off a solid victory. “Ladies first.”
I rolled my fingers over my arm. I wanted to ask Jesse a bunch of questions; at least a dozen fired off in my mind. But only one made its way through my vocal chords. “Why in the hell do you wear such tight jeans?”
Jesse’s face flattened for a second before it lined from the laugh bursting from his mouth. “I thought we said nothing personal,” he managed to get out around his laughter.
“Eh . . . is that a personal question?” It didn’t seem like one to me.
“Yes,” he said, his laughter dimming. “And no. But I’ll answer it anyways.”
“How very open of you,” I tossed back.
“Ignoring that wiseass comment . . .” he said, giving me a look. “I wear tight jeans because I’m on a horse at least a few hours every day. Tighter jeans mean less chaffing. Your first lesson in Ranch Survival 101? Avoid any and all forms of chaffing.”
“Noted.” I nodded once and tapped my head. “Your turn.”
“I wasn’t done answering your question yet.” He gave me a look that suggested that should have been obvious.
“Carry on,” I said with a wave of my hand.
“I wear tight jeans because when I’m out in the fields, I don’t want anything crawling or slithering past my knees. I knew a guy who wore a baggy pair of jeans one day when he was setting a fence, and let’s just say his wife has been a very unsatisfied woman for the past six years.”
“Yikes.” Just the thought of a snake, a spider, or some other creepy-crawler heading up my leg was enough to make me want to invest in a pair of tight-as-tight-could-be jeans.
“And last but nowhere near least, I wear tight jeans because I like the way the girls’ heads turn when I walk by.” His eyes twinkled. They goddamned twinkled.
Groaning again, that time I did lean over and give him a half-hearted shove. “They’re only looking because they’ve been taking bets on when those things are going to bust a seam.”
“Ah, please,” he said, pursing his lips. “Don’t pretend you weren’t checking my butt out when I walked by you earlier. I felt like my ass was about to catch on fire from your unblinking, laser eyes.”
I wasn’t much of a blusher, but I might have just felt the heat of one surfacing. I wasn’t sure if it had more to do with being caught or the image of Jesse’s backside flashing through my mind again.
“Are you going to ask your question, or are you going to go on and on about your love affair with your backside?” I tried to glare at him. It wasn’t working.
He raised a hand in surrender, but those dimples of his stayed drilled deep into his cheeks. “Sticking with the whole personal attire thing . . .” he said, glancing at me. “Do you have a thing against color or do you just really love black?”
It was clear from Jesse’s tone and expression that there was nothing antagonistic about his question. Just genuine curiosity.
“No,” I answered, moving in my seat. “Color has a thing against me.”
I felt Jesse’s eyes on me, waiting for me to say something else,—explain just what the hell I meant—but he could wait for the rest of eternity before he’d get any more out of me.
“And you said I’m the philosophical one?” he said after a while.
“Yep, that’s what I said.” I sat up and stared out the window. “Now that was two questions, so I get two before you get to ask me another.”
“Wha . . .?” he said before it registered. Jesse sighed. “Just for future reference, rhetorical questions don’t count in this little question game.”
“A question’s a question,” I stated, all matter-of-fact.
Jesse sighed again. Louder that time. “I didn’t take you for the question rule police.”
“And I didn’t take you as the question rule corrupt.” I continued to stare out the side window so he wouldn’t see the smile twitching at my lips.
Jesse chuckled. “Fine. You win. Besides, I learned years ago that to start an argument with a woman is to lose an argument.” Before I could praise him with a Smart Man comment, he continued. “We’re getting close to Willow Springs. You better hurry and ask your two questions.”