Eight years earlier

My first day of senior year at a brand new school went exactly how I expected it to. Even though I dressed down in a pair of light wash jeans and a fitted blue blouse, I still stuck out in the crowd. I mean, hell, I was a new face, which doesn't happen often in Darlington, and people knew I wasn't from around here whenever I opened my mouth. I've been called a yankee today more times than I can count.

The people here were just...strange. Every person I walked past wanted to speak to me, and it's not that I'm a bitch, but I don't go out of my way to say hello to every person I walk past, and that didn't go over so well with the people here at Darlington High. They seemed to hate the fact that I didn't want to talk about myself.

But finally, during trigonometry, my last class of the day, I get a breath of fresh air. Wyatt is sitting in the back of the room, eyes glued directly to me as I search for a seat. He points to the one in front of him, and when he watches my cheeks turn red, he puts a hand over his mouth to keep from smiling.

"You must be Macey Taylor," he says in that sweet southern drawl of his. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"And you're Wyatt Brooks," I reply. He's not wearing a cowboy hat today. Instead, he's got a pair of light wash jeans that are fitted to his body perfectly and a t-shirt with some sort of logo I don't recognize.

"You've heard about me?"

I shrug. "I don't know much other than your name and that you can sing. I saw you at The Starlighter."

He smiles. "I know. I saw you too." My body is hot all over, prickling every inch of my skin as he scans my face, then glances down at my blouse. "You certainly know how to make an entrance."

I arch a brow. "Were you just checking out my breasts?"

Now it's his turn to get red, and for the first time, he's flabbergasted. "What? No, I...my mama raised me better than that. Not that they aren't nice, but I wasn't lookin, I just meant that you don't dress like the other girls down here."

Jesus, of course he wasn't looking. Why did I think he was checking me out? Getting this boy to be impressed by me is starting out terribly.

"Oh, right. Well,  I guess I have a lot to learn about small towns. I'm from New York City. My dad lost his old job and got a new one down here, but I should have done my research prior to moving." My mouth is spewing utter word vomit, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I'm utterly mortified.

Thankfully, the teacher comes into the classroom, but I don't want to stop talking to Wyatt, and he must feel the same because he leans forward and says, "I don't think research will help you out. You need an insider that knows the place, like really knows it, and you just so happen to be in luck."

I can't hide my smile. "How so?"

"Because you're lookin at your tour guide. We can start after class if you ain't busy."

***

After grabbing my things from my locker, I meet Wyatt out front and follow him to his truck. It's a blue ford pickup, and he stares at it like it's his pride and joy. "My parents just bought me it for Christmas. It's used, but it does the job."

"It's nice," I say and go to grab the handle, but he jumps in front to stop me, pulling the door open himself.

"Don't ever reach for the handle if you're ridin' with me. It's offensive." He smiles again, and I'm so short of breath from the close proximity that I don't even realize three other people have joined us.

"Man, I knew you'd go for the stuck up city chick," a boy with red hair laughs, freckles splattered across his entire face. He can see how offended I am because he quickly back tracks. "Not that I think that. It's just what everyone's callin' ya."

"Sorry," Wyatt says and elbows his friend in the side, "Dylan doesn't know how to shut his mouth sometimes. Nobody is callin' you that."

His other friend, a short, chubby boy with curly hair winces from the lie, and I let out an exasperated sigh. "Why the hell am I being labeled as a stuck up city chick? I'm not stuck up!"

Dylan snorts. "Look at ya, Taylor. Ya look like you're about to have a photoshoot. The makeup, the highlighted hair, the nails, yer just beggin' to be picked on."

I glance down at my outfit choice again, the blouse and jeans with a pair of flats, wondering how this comes across as trying too hard. I was always raised to take good care of myself, and not having my hair curled or makeup done would feel odd to me. I dress like this for myself, not for others.

"Well, I don't care what anyone thinks," I tell them. "I know I'm not stuck up. I love fashion, and I enjoy looking nice. I'm not going to apologize for that or change myself because of a stupid town."

"Whoa," Wyatt says, his eyes a sky blue when they meet mine, "you don't like Darlington, darlin?"

I wrinkle my nose up in disgust. "That was the corniest thing I've heard in awhile."

"That's Wyatt for ya," the short boy says. "He's the sappiest guy you'll ever meet, but he's a poor sweet-talker. I think that's the reason he ain't never had a girlfriend."

The third friend, the one who hasn't said anything, finally sticks a hand out to me. He looks different than his friends. Rather than a plaid shirt and jeans, he's wearing all black, which matches his hair and stone gray eyes that I can't tell whether or not they're contacts.  "Parker," he says, "and yeah, what Timmy said. Wyatt doesn't got a lot of game, so if you're lookin' for a boyfriend, you're prolly better off with one of us."

"Guys, shut up," Wyatt hisses.

How has he never had a girlfriend? He's done just fine getting to know me. In fact, he's charmed the hell out of me and I've only known him for a few hours.

He waves his hand toward the truck with the door still open, and his friends get the hint, telling us they'll see us tomorrow before they scatter off somewhere else, but I don't even pay attention to where they go. I'm only focused on Wyatt as he laughs, a deep chuckle that shoots bolts of electricity deep down in my core. "Sorry bout' them. They're annoying as all hell."

I shrug. "I kind of liked them. They were entertaining."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, so long as they don't call me a stuck up city chick like the rest of school."

He steps closer and takes the seatbelt that's right beside me, and then he moves it across my body to click it into place. He's inches from my face now, his breath on my lips, and when my eyes meet his, everything just feels right. I can't explain this sensation of peace, and it doesn't matter that we've only known each other for a few hours. Right now, I want to kiss him, and I think he wants to kiss me too.

"And what about darlin?" He asks. "Do you mind if I call you that?"

I shake my head, unable to speak, unable to breathe, completely lost in his sparkling blue eyes.

"Well, that settles it then," he says. "From now on, you're darlin' to me."

***

Our first stop on the tour is an old-fashioned ice cream parlor on main street. Wyatt holds the door open for me as two little kids come out giddy and laughing with their parents close behind them. The father of the kids knows Wyatt, and they're enveloped in conversation for a few minutes as I wait patiently inside. In New York, I never ran into anyone I knew. In fact, I met different people every single day. But here in Darlington, you can't go to the grocery store without running into someone it seems like.

Wyatt wraps up his conversation with the man and shakes his head at me. "Ya can't not say hello to people. That's why you're bein' labeled as a stuck up city chick."

"I didn't know him. Why would I say hello?"

We step up to the counter. I order a chocolate cone and he orders a strawberry, and as we wait, he replies, "because it's the polite thing to do. It's a southern thing."

"This town just keeps on getting better and better," I grumble.

Wyatt takes both of our cones from the woman behind the counter, but rather than sit inside, he walks out to his truck and opens the passenger side door open for me again. "I'm takin' you someplace else now," he says, attempting to read my mind. He hands me my cone, but it's so hot outside that the ice cream is already dripping. Before I'm able to stop it, a drop of chocolate ice cream falls onto his passenger side seat, immediately staining the polyester.

"Oh my god," I blurt out, completely embarrassed. "Wyatt, I'm so sorry. Do you have napkins? They probably have some inside." I'm rambling, tears welling up in my eyes as Wyatt tips my chin up with his finger to look at him.

"Darlin', it's fine. Honestly. My car needed some character anyway."

"But you just got it! I could tell from the way you looked at it that it's important to you. Oh, god. This is literally our first time hanging out and I-I screwed it up."

His eyebrows scrunch together as he tries to figure out why I'm reacting the way that I am. To him, it's just a stain, but to me, it's another failure to add to the list of things I can't seem to accomplish. It brings me to a place right before my mother left, back to when my parents couldn't seem to figure themselves out, so instead took their anger out on me.

"Macey, it's just a stain," he says so softly that I almost don't hear it. He dips his head down to catch my gaze again. "I love the new look, alright? It doesn't bother me one bit."

I'm sniffling from the tears that have now started rolling on my cheeks, and his gaze softens as he continues to stare at me. Before I know it, he dips his fingers into my ice cream and makes the stain on his seat bigger. I'm staring at the chocolate smeared on the seat with wide eyes, but when I see him smiling, I let out a laugh.

This boy that I barely know went to such lengths to put a smile on my face, and something tells me that this isn't going to be just a fling. Wyatt seems like the type of guy to stay in a person's life forever, and the thought scares the hell out of me that I might be falling for someone so quickly.

"I can't believe you just did that," I say with a shaky laugh.

He takes a lick of his strawberry cone and sends me a wink. "I'm not afraid of a little mess, darlin', and besides, I have a strange feelin' that the only person occupying this passenger seat of mine most of the time will be you. Might as well leave your mark."

A/N:

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