“He’s very committed to the dialogue.” Nate’s expression is pained, but there’s a hint of a smile underneath. “Lucas takes notes.”
I bury my face in my hands. “This is so embarrassing.”
“You’re embarrassed?” He glances at me. “I had to sit through a dramatic reading of something called—” He pauses, ears going red. “I’m not saying the title.”
“Which book?”
“I’m not saying it.”
“Nate.”
“The one with the barn.”
I groan. That’s definitely the spiciest one. “I’m going to kill them.”
“Get in line.” But he’s almost smiling now. “So they used your own tropes to set us up.”
“Apparently.”
“That’s...”
“Diabolical? Manipulative? Grounds for murder?”
“I was going to say clever.”
I blink. “What?”
“They know you. They know what works.” His eyes stay fixed on the road, but there’s something almost soft in his voice. “If they thought it would help, I can’t blame them for trying.”
“Help with what?”
He doesn’t answer. But his ears are red again.
We hitNevada as the sun starts to set.
My back aches from sitting so long, and I’ve eaten my way through most of Maeve’s muffins. Nate has loosened up incrementally over the past few hours—not all the way, but enough that we’ve managed actual conversations. About Ben and their high school antics. About his brother Liam and the Sheriff’s department. About the new hiking trails they’re building outside of town.
Nothing deep. Nothing about us. But it’s something.
“We should stop soon,” Nate says, nodding toward a sign for the next exit. “There’s a motel up ahead. We can get an early start tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
The motel is small and nondescript—the kind of place that caters to truckers and road-trippers, nothing fancy but clean enough. Nate pulls into the parking lot and cuts the engine.
“I’ll get us rooms,” he says, already opening his door.
“I can?—”
“I’ve got it.”
He’s gone before I can argue, striding across the parking lot toward the front office. I watch him go, admiring the way his shoulders fill out his jacket, the confident set of his stride.
Get it together, Donovan.
He’s back five minutes later, and his expression is... complicated.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as he climbs back into the truck.
