“Still figuring that out,” I admitted. “But I know I’m not good at standing by when someone’s in trouble. And I know I don’t like the way that guy looked at you—like you were something he’d misplaced and just needed to collect.”
Her breath caught. “You noticed that?”
“Hard not to.” I reached across the table and covered her hand with mine. Her fingers were cold, and I felt her startle at the contact. “You’re not a thing to be collected, Elsa. And if he can’t see that, then he doesn’t deserve another conversation with you.”
She was quiet for a long moment, fingers still wrapped around her glass. Then, slowly, she turned her hand over beneath mine, letting our fingers intertwine.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said softly. “The grumpy guy in the corner.”
“I’m still grumpy.”
“Maybe.” Her thumb traced across my knuckles. “But you’re also kind. That’s harder to find.”
Something cracked open in my chest. Something I’d kept locked down for a long time.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay?”
“When he comes back, you can be there.” She squeezed my hand once, then pulled away. “But right now, I need to close up. And you need to go home and get some sleep.”
I didn’t want to go. Every instinct I had was screaming at me to stay—to make sure she got home safe, to find out where she lived, to camp outside her door like some kind of lovesick guard dog.
“Let me help you close up,” I said.
She blinked. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to.” I stood, picking up both our empty glasses. “But Preston knows where you work now. He could be sitting out in that parking lot right now, waiting for you to walk out alone.”
The color drained from her face. She hadn’t thought of that.
“I’m not trying to scare you,” I added, softer. “I just want to make sure you get to your car without another…incident.”
For a long moment, she just looked at me. I could see the internal debate playing out—the part of her that wanted to insist she was fine warring with the part that knew I was right.
“Okay,” she said finally. “But you’re not doing dishes. That’s where I draw the line.”
“Fair enough.”
I followed her around the roadhouse as she closed out the register, wiped down the last of the tables, and flipped chairsonto tabletops. I made myself useful where I could—taking out the trash, checking that the back door was locked—and stayed out of her way when I couldn’t.
It was strangely domestic. Comfortable in a way I hadn’t expected. Like we’d done this a hundred times before instead of never.
“That’s it,” she said finally, grabbing her jacket from behind the bar. “Ready?”
I held out my hand. “Keys?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“I’ll go out first. Make sure the lot’s clear.”
“Briggs, I really don’t think?—”
“Humor me.”
She hesitated, then dropped her keys into my palm. Our fingers brushed, and I felt that same jolt of electricity I’d felt earlier when she was in my lap. From the way her breath caught, I knew she felt it too.
I walked to the front door and stepped out into the cold night air, scanning the parking lot. A handful of cars sat in the dim glow of the streetlights. None of them looked like they belonged to a preppy stalker from Charlotte.
