I should fill the silence. Explain again that this is temporary, transactional. But what comes out instead is, “I really do just need furniture moved.”
“I know.” His hands stay steady on the wheel, relaxed and capable.
“I open in two weeks. The armoire is blocking the entire back wall. That’s all this is.”
“Okay.”
The simplicity of his response unsettles me more than an argument would. I shift in my seat. “I can pay you. For your time.”
“We’ll figure it out.” His voice is calm, unhurried, like we have all the time in the world instead of being trapped in a truck driving into a storm.
“I heard that you entered the auction late,” I say.
“I did.”
“Why?”
His jaw tightens slightly. “Heard you were going to be there.”
My stomach flips. “How did you—”
“Small town. You were talking to Mika Landry at the bookstore about needing help. She mentioned you might bid.” He glances at me briefly before his eyes return to the road. “Figured I’d make it easy for you.”
Heat crawls up my neck despite the cold outside. “By shutting down the auction?”
“By making sure you got what you needed.”
The certainty in his voice makes my chest tight and warm and aching. I press my palms against my thighs, grounding myself in the denim beneath my hands. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
The wipers beat a steady rhythm. The heater hums. My body starts to unwind in increments, tension bleeding from my shoulders, my neck, the base of my spine. The warmth seeps into my muscles, and the exhaustion I’ve been holding at bay starts to press against the edges of my awareness.
“The armoire I need moved—it’s oak. Probably 1920s. Weighs more than I do.”
“How much more?”
“Enough that I almost threw my back out trying to shift it three inches.”
His hands tighten on the wheel, just barely, but I catch it. The knuckles go white for a second before he forces them to relax. “You shouldn’t have been moving it alone.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“You do now.”
The simple, absolute words settle between us. The easy way he’s claimed responsibility for something that isn’t his problem makes my throat feel tight. I turn my face toward the window.
The road curves upward, the grade steepening. The truck handles it without hesitation, chains biting into the snow-packed asphalt with a rhythmic crunch that’s oddly soothing.
“Storm’s going to get worse before it gets better,” Davin says. “Roads’ll be closed by morning.”
My pulse kicks. “For how long?”
“Day, maybe two.”
“I need to be back for—”
“We’ll get you back when it’s safe.” His tone doesn’t leave room for negotiation, but it’s not controlling. It’s protective, and my body knows the difference.
