I shake my head to clear the intrusive voice. The day after Mom’s funeral, I took off on the open road. As soon as I drove out of Truth or Consequences, I heard her voice telling me not to go. That everything would be okay. I ignored her and have been trying to keep the voice from entering my mind ever since. The closer I get to New Mexico, the louder and clearer her voice rings in my head.
I’m not ready for commitment. I won’t be until I drive away all the hurt and anger I have harbored in my soul. Which means I should take my coffee, hand Hope hers, make sure she’s okay, and get back on my bike before I start imagining things that don’t belong to me.
The barista sets our drinks on the counter. “Here you go.”
I take both cups carefully. When I reach her booth, Hope looks up, those hazel eyes catching the light like they’re made of gold dust and secrets. I set the peppermint mocha in front of her.
“For you,” I say.
Her bright smile hits me harder than I expect. It’s a little shy, which surprises me after how direct she was before.
“Thank you,” she says, fingers grazing the cup. Then she gestures to the seat across from her. “You… wanna sit?”
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But my legs don’t care what my brain thinks. I lower myself into the seat across from her.
Hope tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and rests her elbow on the table. “So… thank you, again, for stepping in when no one else did.”
“Didn’t like the way he talked to you,” I say simply. “A real man would never make a woman feel cornered like that.”
Her cheeks warm. “I’m Hope,” she adds, even though I already knew.
I chuckle. “Frost.”
She bites her lip. “Is that your real name?”
“Roadname,” I say.
She nods like that checks out somehow. Her hazel eyes flick to my cut, my gloves, back up to my face. Curiosity is written all over her expression, but she’s polite enough not to ask anything yet.
“So, what do you do?” I ask.
The question catches her off guard. A rosy flush tints her face. She looks down and fiddles with the cardboard sleeve on her cup.
“I’m a writer,” Hope says, almost like she’s confessing something scandalous.
My eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”
She nods. “Romance, mostly.”
Her blush spreads, pink warms her cheeks and slides down her slender neck. She avoids my eyes for a second as if she’s embarrassed. This woman is adorable.
“Nothing wrong with romance,” I say.
She looks up, surprised. “Most guys get weird about it.”
“I’m not most guys.”
Her laugh is quiet, somewhere between relief and amusement. Hope takes a sip of her drink, and her shoulders relax a little. I study her, and for the first time all day, I forget about the road waiting for me. Instead, I’m sitting in a warm booth with a gorgeous woman who writes stories about peoplefalling in love. She’s the kind of woman men write songs about. The kind you don’t meet twice. And I’m leaving town… Soon. But right now? Right now, I don’t move. Those hazel eyes have me hypnotized. Hope looks at me like she wants to ask me another question. And hell… I want her to.
“Do you live around here?” Hope asks casually.
“Nah, I’m from a little town in New Mexico.” I keep my answer vague. “So, romance writer, huh?”
Hope groans softly. “Please don’t say something cliché like‘does your sex life reflect the scenes in the book’, or ‘you must have a great man in your life to write romance’.I get that enough.”
I huff out a laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Her eyebrows lift. “No teasing at all?”
