“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You absolutely did.” But she’s smiling, and her scent has gone warm and relaxed, the citrus edge completely gone now. Just lavender and that sweet undertone. Just her.
We eat. We talk. She tells me about finding Honeyridge—how she drove through on a road trip three years ago and something just clicked. How she’d been drifting from city to city after aging out of the foster system, never staying anywhere long enough to put down roots. Until here.
“I didn’t have family growing up,” she says quietly, twirling pasta around her fork. “Foster care. Aged out at eighteen with nothing but a garbage bag of clothes and a lot of trust issues.”
I set down my wine glass. “Tessa...”
“I’m not telling you for sympathy.” She meets my eyes, and there’s a fierceness there I recognize. The kind that comes from surviving. “I’m telling you because you shared something real with me. Seems fair I do the same.”
“Thank you.” I mean it. “For trusting me with that.”
She shrugs, but there’s a vulnerability underneath. “Honeyridge is the first place that ever felt like home. The first place people actually... stayed.”
I reach across the table, cover her hand with mine. “We’re not going anywhere.”
She laughs at that one. “You don’t know what I’m like when I’m stressed about an event.”
“I’ve seen you stressed about events for three years. Still here.” I steal a bite of her tiramisu—she insisted on sharing—and grin when she swats at my fork. “That’s what I love about this place. Everyone’s got history with everyone. Gramps used to say the bar wasn’t really his—it belonged to the town. He just kept the lights on.”
“So you stayed to keep the lights on.”
“I stayed because it mattered. Because the people here matter.” I set down my fork, look at her across the candlelit table. “Never regretted it. Especially not lately.”
She holds my gaze, and something passes between us. Not just attraction—though that’s there, god knows it’s there—but something quieter. Deeper. The start of something real.
“I’m glad you stayed,” she says softly.
“Yeah.” I reach across the table, run my thumb over her knuckles. “Me too.”
The drive back is different—darker,quieter, the mountains swallowed by night. The only light comes from my headlights cutting through the darkness.
Tessa’s turned toward me in her seat, and at some point her hand found its way to my arm. Just resting there. Warm through my sweater.
“I had a really good time,” she says softly.
“Yeah?” I glance at her, catch the warmth in her eyes. “Good enough for a second date?”
“Maybe.” There’s a hint of teasing in her voice. “Depends.”
“On what?”
She doesn’t answer, just smiles and looks out the window at the stars.
I know this stretch of road. There’s an overlook about five minutes ahead—the one where everyone in town has parked at least once. Usually it’s full of teenagers, but on a cold February night, it’ll be empty.
I shouldn’t. I should take her straight home like a gentleman.
But when the turnoff appears, I slow down.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Showing you the view.” I pull onto the overlook and cut the engine. The valley spreads out below us, lights from Pine Valley twinkling in the distance, stars scattered overhead.
Tessa looks out at the view, then back at me. “The view, huh?”
“Best one in the county.” I unbuckle my seatbelt, turn to face her properly. “Also, I’ve been wanting to kiss you all night, and I didn’t want to do it while driving.”
