Neither of us say anything until she’s honked the horn, waved, and turned the car onto the main road.
Declan steps closer.
Up close he seems tired or wary. “Got your letter.”
“That’s good.” I jam my hands deeper into my pockets and try to look anywhere but his handsome face.
“Are you cold?” he asks. “Do you want to sit in the truck?”
It’s a roomy bench seat. We could probably…maybe a farewellfrolicwill make this hurt less?
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I might end up in your lap.”I can’t believe I said that out loud!
He blinks, then understanding seems to spread over his face. “I won’t stop you. But I’d like to talk first.”
“Oh.” That’s all my brain to mouth function can manage. My pulse kicks up. Suddenly my body’s very aware of how much it’d like to be close to Declan’s.
“I read the letter,” he says.
A slow quiver of embarrassment thrums through me. I cross my arms over my chest to keep myself from falling apart. “And?”
Declan studies my face, his jaw tight, eyes searching like he’s trying to read between my lines and find all the things I left unwritten. “And for someone who’s such a good writer, it’s bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
Declan exhales, running a hand over the back of his neck. The motion pulls my attention to his shoulders. The place where one of the Rider’s marks used to live. Has he noticed a difference? Have any regrets? Do I have the right to even ask?
“You should’ve talked to me first,” he says.
I clear my throat and try to remain calm. “I thought it was better this way.”
“Better for who?”
I glance past him, toward the street. Toward anything that isn’t his face. “Both of us.”
“Get in the truck,” he says.
“What?” I hug myself tighter, afraid I’ll shatter into a million pieces if I let go.
“I’m not doing this in a parking lot,” he says. “You’re so cold you’re shivering.”
It’s not the chilly night air that has me shaking in my sneakers, but I don’t bother arguing.
He follows closely as I walk to the truck and reaches past me to open the door.
A giant, bushy bouquet of red roses wrapped in black metallic paper rests on the passenger side. I blink and stare, my eyes watering—from the cold, of course.
He reaches past me and gathers the arrangement in one big fist. “It’s too cold for them. It probably wasn’t my best idea,” he says, pushing them toward me.
“They’re beautiful.” I take the flowers, then notice the small, fluffy black crow ornament nestled in the leaves. “Oh, how cute!”
He half shrugs. “I had to add it when I saw it at the counter.”
Finally, I meet his eyes. “Thank you.”
Clutching the bouquet in one hand, I hoist myself into the cab of the truck, then set it on my lap. Once we’re both inside, he starts the engine and cranks the heat all the way up. Warm air blasts over us.
“Better?” he asks, his voice lifting above the hum of the heater.
