I smile, unable to help it. “Only when I think you’re lying.”
His mouth tightens like he’s fighting the urge to smile back.
“You think I’m lying now?” he asks.
I shift in the seat, suddenly very aware of how close we are in this truck. “I think you kissed me like you wanted to… and then you ran.”
Beau grips the wheel a little harder.
The muscles in his forearm flex, and my brain immediately loses IQ points.
“I didn’t run,” he says, voice low.
“You left,” I correct.
He glances at me, and the look in his eyes is the opposite of calm. “I had to.”
Something in my chest aches. “Because you were called out, or because you didn’t want to stay?”
Beau’s throat works like he swallows something sharp. “Both.”
The honesty hits me in the sternum.
I look out the window at the trees, at the snow, at the way Timber Creek looks like a movie set for cozy romance dreams—and I feel my voice come out softer than I intended.
“I didn’t regret it,” I say.
Beau’s knuckles whiten on the wheel.
“Neither did I,” he says.
And the way he says it—like it costs him—makes my heart tilt.
June’s house is… not a house.
It’s a warm, sprawling lodge-style place with a wraparound porch, strings of twinkle lights, and the kind of “welcome” wreath that feels aggressively wholesome.
Cars line the driveway. Voices and laughter drift out into the cold. The scent of something rich and savory wraps around us the moment Beau parks.
I stare. “Is the whole town here?”
Beau’s mouth twitches. “Probably.”
I look at him, alarmed. “You didn’t tell me it was afestival.”
“You didn’t ask,” he says, then opens his door and steps out like he’s not the reason I’m sweating under my coat.
I scramble out, adjusting my hair like that’ll fix anything.
Beau comes around the truck and pauses in front of me.
His gaze drops to my boots, then my dress, then my face.
“You’re cold?” he asks.
“No,” I lie.
His eyes narrow like he knows. Then he reaches up—slow, giving me time to pull away—and tugs my scarf higher around my neck.
