Her heart pounded against her ribs as she darted through the restaurant, weaving between startled patrons. She didn’t even realize she still had her cloth napkin clutched tightly in her hand until the cool night air hit her face and she burst into the parking lot.
And there he was.
Tate straddled his Ducati, the sleek black bike gleaming under the yellow wash of the streetlamp. He held his helmet in both hands, poised as if he’d been seconds away from vanishing.
“Tate,” she called, the word shaky, unsteady.
He stilled. The faintest hesitation, but it was enough.
They stared at each other across the stretch of cracked pavement, silence stretching so tight it threatened to snap. Gathering what little courage she had left, Nettie took a step closer.
“What, Nettie?” Tate asked coolly, his voice distant, emotionless. “You made your feelings known. I’m sorry I ever bothered you.”
Her stomach dropped. “You weren’t supposed to hear any of that.”
“Maybe you should have told me that a long time ago.”
Her fingers curled tighter around the napkin. “We don’t talk. We’ve never really talked.”
“Guess that’s not starting now either.” He shrugged, a gesture meant to look careless, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him.
Nettie’s throat was dry, but she forced herself forward another step, as though every inch mattered. “I heard you got a cat…”
His head jerked up sharply, and for a flicker of a moment his expression was raw—unguarded, almost stricken. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, hidden behind that careful mask of his. That tiny slip was all she needed to know: something was different.
Something feltwrong.
Tate was hiding something.
“I found a kitten,” he said finally, his tone clipped. “So what?”
“Maybe you could text me a photo of it.”
“Maybe.” His shoulders rose and fell, a nonchalant shrug that looked rehearsed. He opened his mouth like he had more to say, then shut it again.
“What?” Nettie prompted quickly, her own urgency startling her. “What were you going to say?”
His gaze softened, if only by a fraction. Instead of that obsidian glass, there was a slight thawing there, making those dark eyes she always admired appear more like ink. “Maybe we should talk sometime and clear the air,” he said quietly, so quietshe nearly didn’t hear it over the hum of passing traffic—or the hammering of her own heart.
Her knees felt weak.
“Maybe we should,” she whispered, the words sticking in her throat. “I mean, we could talk or try to be polite to each other?—”
His sharp gaze cut to hers, and she faltered instantly.
“Because I would really like a chance to mend things—as friends.”
“Friends, huh?” His voice was edged, unreadable.
“Did you have something else in mind?” she asked, her voice breaking on the last word. Her heart was pounding so fast she was half-convinced it might just give out right there in the parking lot.
“I guess we’ll see.” He yanked his helmet over his head, the motion abrupt. His voice, muffled now, still managed to carry. “I’ll text you later when my sister isn’t eavesdropping from the doorway.”
Nettie blinked, startled, and turned.
Sure enough, Gina and Shannon were hovering in the restaurant’s doorway, pretending poorly that they weren’t watching every second, hanging on every stilted word between them.
When she turned back, Tate gave her a knowing look, visor down, as if mocking both of them for the audience they’d unintentionally acquired. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he shut the visor, started the Ducati, and rolled back smoothly.
