TWENTY-THREE
My heart is poundingwith anticipation as I drive to the parking lot of Shannon’s. Sloan’s orange Chevy van is standing nearby, and I’m hoping to find her here.
I step out of my truck and make my way over to the side door, knocking. But there’s no answer.
Fuck, how is she gone already?North just got back thirty minutes ago, telling me they were done with their run.
I pull out my phone, ready to send her a text, when I hear the restaurant door close. I look up, and there she is, walking toward me, dressed in jeans and a gray sweater, looking as stunning as always with her hair in braids.
I missed that hairstyle on her.
“Good morning,” I greet, my smile stretching wide across my face because seeing her is like the sun rising on this cloudy day.
“What are you doing here?” she asks cautiously, her brows furrowing as she crosses her arms over her chest.
So, it seems we’re back to square one.
“I got you something,” I announce, my grin widening as I stride toward my truck. With a bit of effort, I open the bed to reveal the two boxes I had stashed up there.
“What is it?” Sloan asks, her curiosity piqued as she leans in for a closer look. I appreciate the fact that she’s showing some emotion other than afuck-offvibe.
“It’s hoses and a new heater for your van,” I reply, a hint of enthusiasm in my voice. “I may not be much help with the installation, but I can keep you company while you fix everything up.”
“You bought me parts for the van?” She looks offended, a frown forming between her eyebrows. “Why would you do that? I don’t need your pity. I would have managed to buy them myselfeventually.”
I take a step closer, reaching out a hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she doesn’t pull away, so I let my thumb gently glide over the spot between her brows, smoothing out the crease.
I’m surprised she allows it.
But the urge to touch her is like a primal need.
“I asked you to let me help you help yourself,” I explain earnestly, my tone soft. My hand moves from her brow to her upper arm, gently rubbing up and down for comfort. “I promised you we’d fix your security blanket. It’s damn well time I kept my promise.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?” She glares, though her eyes don’t reflect the same intensity.
“Late, no doubt,” I concede. “But is ittoolate?” I can’t quite hide the hope that creeps into my voice.
She bites her lip, and I can see the gears turning in her head as she contemplates whether or not to give in.
Please give in.Please let me do this for you.
Her gaze shifts to my right, lingering for a few moments. In that instant, she looks like she did when she did the reading as if listening and absorbing something that only she can hear.
Is somebody here with us?
Whoever it is, I hope they’re on my side.
It seems they are because, with reluctant acceptance, she nods and strides to the back of the truck. Effortlessly, she jumps up and reaches to lift a heavy box.
“Wait, let me,” I offer, but she has already grabbed the lighter one containing the hoses. She jumps down from the truck bed and places it on the ground near the front of the van.
I stand by, watching as she moves to the back of her van, retrieving tools. When she returns to the front, I stand beside her, observing as she pops open the hood and peers inside. It reveals a labyrinth of hoses and wires, and Sloan wastes no time getting to work. Her hands move with precision as she looks for the broken hoses.
“God, you’re a mess, old girl,” she mutters, giving the side of the van a pat as if offering an apology.
“Do you think it’s salvageable?” I inquire, a sense of hope tinging my words. Deep down, I know the answer needs to be yes, if only for Sloan’s sake.
She can’t lose the van too.
