“I’m curious.” He takes a sip. “Why romance?”
It’s the first real question he’s asked. Not polite small talk—genuine interest.
“I needed an outlet,” I say carefully. “After I left. Writing was safer than dealing with feelings directly.”
“Makes sense.”
“Does it?”
“Everyone needs coping mechanisms. Some drink. Some overwork. You wrote books.” He hands me the thermos. “Mine was overwork.”
“Did it help?”
“Not really.” He looks at me. “Did writing?”
“Sometimes. Other times it made me miss everyone more.”
The words slip out. I freeze, waiting for him to shut down.
Instead, he nods slowly. “Yeah. Work was like that too.”
Not forgiveness. But understanding. Right now, that’s enough.
“Hungry?”he asks when the hot chocolate’s gone.
“Starving.”
“There’s a diner in Huckleberry Hollow. Best pie in three counties, don’t tell Millie.”
“You’re taking me on a pie expedition?”
“I’m taking you to dinner. Pie is essential.”
“My cousin lives there. She did mention the pie was good.”
“See, that’s two votes for best pie.”
We drive with the radio on—country station Lucas claims to hate but knows every word to. I catch him mouthing along to Garth Brooks.
“You’re singing,” I say.
“I am not.”
“You just mouthed ‘Friends in Low Places.’“
“Muscle memory. Doesn’t count.”
“That’s absolutely singing.”
“No sound came out.”
“Silent singing is still singing.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It’s definitely a thing. I’m telling everyone. ‘Dr. Lucas Price, serious medical professional, secretly sings country music in his car.’“
“You have no proof.”
