"No. Your little sunshiny attitude is starting to wear on me," he says and winks, then turns his focus back to the road.

His statement does nothing for my overactive senses. I ask, "What's your favorite type of music? Let me guess. It's country."

He groans. "Hell no."

Surprised, I reply, "No? But didn't you grow up in a small town?"

"So? It doesn't mean I like country," he claims.

"You don't like any of the songs?" I question.

"Some of the newer stuff is okay, but that old-school twangy stuff, no. It drives me nuts."

"So, what do you like?"

"Rock, mostly. How about you?"

I ponder the question for a moment. "Well, I like everything except elevator music, techno, or that really Gothic stuff."

He smiles as if I'm amusing him. "What's your favorite food?"

"Pecan pie," I state.

His eyes widen. "Pecan pie is your favorite food?"

"Yeah. Why do you act like that's bad?"

"What is it with you and sweets?"

"Do you have a problem with sweets?"

"Yeah, it's called sugar. Do you not know how bad it is for you? It kills people," he claims.

"Everything in moderation is fine," I assure him.

He shakes his head as if I'm crazy.

For some reason, I feel insulted. I accuse, "Is this some warped idea you have that women should be stick poles?"

His eyes widen. "When did I say I wanted women to be stick poles?"

"Well, if it looks like a frog and jumps like a frog..."

He scowls. "Don't accuse me of things you know nothing about."

Tense silence fills the cab. I finally break it, asking, "So what's your favorite food?"

"Tex-Mex or barbecue."

"Ah, very Texan of you, Mr. Cartwright," I tease.

"Don't even try to tell me you don't like Tex-Mex or barbecue," he asserts.

"You can't go wrong with either. I'd happily eat those dishes any day of the week."

"Whew! No one in my family would let me marry you if you didn't like that kind of food," he teases.

"Good to know," I claim. "So, tell me about your family and how you grew up. I probably should know some stuff about them. Right?"

He turns on his blinker, looks over his shoulder, then veers into another lane, passing a semi. He answers, "We grew up on the ranch. As you know, we've got thousands of cattle, but we also have horses, chickens, goats, and lambs."

"That sounds like a good way to grow up," I state.

He continues, "My mom and dad have been together forever. My dad's name is Jacob. My mom's name's Ruby. But you probably already knew that."

"Yes," I admit. The Cartwright family is known all over Dallas, and his parents have even been featured in articles.