It’s something, but it’s with Sam Rochelle, and I have to admit, he’s been plaguing my thoughts all day. He’s so intriguing, and he’s obviously as handsome as ever. Back when we were in high school, and him being two years younger than me, I never looked at him as more than a cute guy. The age difference back then pretty much ensured we ran in different circles.
But in only a few short days, has he become a joyfulreason to be back in Whynot? He’s definitely a break from the pressure of the restaurant, and he takes my mind off whether I’ll have a job back in DC when this is all said and done.
I double-check that the coffee pots are rinsed and the neonOpensign is dark before heading to the restroom with my tote bag. From inside, I dig out the little arsenal I packed this morning—mascara, lip gloss, deodorant, dry shampoo, and an extra set of clothes folded with the precision of a woman who overthought every decision today.
I change out of my café clothes and into something that feels more me—a sleeveless floral blouse with a flirty tie at the shoulder and cropped jeans that hit just above my favorite wedge sandals. I dab a touch of perfume behind each ear, fluff my hair, and swipe gloss over my lips. It’s ridiculous how much effort I’m putting into what Sam called “just showing me something,” but the flutter under my ribs hasn’t let up all afternoon.
By the time I’ve locked the front door and stepped out under the streetlamp, my nerves are on overdrive. The sound of a truck engine draws my attention just as Sam pulls up along the curb and rolls down the window.
“Hey, pretty lady,” he calls out. “Want a ride?”
I pretend skepticism. “I don’t know… you look like you could be dangerous.”
His warm eyes twinkle and his dimples pop. “I amindeed dangerous, but you don’t look like you scare easy.”
True enough, so I open the passenger door and hop in.
I take him in quickly… dark jeans and a gray Henley that clings to his chest.
Sam’s smile starts slow and spreads easy. “You clean up nice, Ms. Pritchard.”
“I had a hot date with a mop and a stack of dirty pie plates,” I say, feigning casual while tugging at the tie on my blouse. “Thought I’d look presentable for the encore.”
He glances down, taking in the outfit, and there’s a hint of something playful in his eyes that makes the whole effort feel worth it. “Encore looks good on you.”
I can’t hide my grin. “Where are we going, exactly?”
“You’ll see.”
“If this ends in a shallow grave, I’m haunting you.”
“That’s fair,” he says, putting the truck in drive. The soft rumble of the engine vibrates through the seat. We pull out onto Main Street, passing darkened storefronts and porch lights glowing behind lace curtains.
We drive by Mainer House, the three-story home looking straight out of a picture book.
“I love that house,” I murmur as I crane my head to look at it. “When I was little, I used to think it was what Whynot was supposed to feel like. Big porch, oak trees,fireflies—like it was holding the town together.”
“Having a place you love matters,” he says, his tone softening.
“It does,” I agree quietly. “It’s like it anchors you.”
Sam looks at it as we pass by. “It’s finally looking nice again after Lowe painted it neon pink,” Sam says.
I laugh. “Muriel told me about that. Sounds like I missed a lot of fun.”
“I don’t know that Lowe thought it was fun.” Sam chuckles. I notice that he’s a confident driver, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on a very well-muscled thigh.
It’s a legend of a story that will be told to future generations. Mely, who is now Lowe’s wife, had blown into town from the big city of New York, having just bought the Mainer House. It had been in the Mainer family forever and a day, but they’d decided to sell it as their life was out on their big farm. Lowe was attached to the house, and in order to thwart that damn Yankee’s idea to refurbish it into something monstrous, he painted it neon pink. Judge Bowen didn’t take kindly to that and ordered him to not only fix it but to make other repairs as Mely saw fit. Of course, after some fighting back and forth, they ultimately fell in love, got married, and now live there.
As we head out into the country on darkened roads, conversation comes easy. Sam tells me he’s alreadyrestocked Chesty’s for the weekend crowd. I mention Muriel’s endless Post-it Notes and her insistence on a nightly report of how many biscuits we sold so she can ensure people like them under my watch.
The headlights sweep across the dark road, catching the edges of split-rail fences and sleepy pastures. The world outside the truck turns darker, the town giving way to open country where the only light comes from the moon and stars. No porch lights, no headlights. The road narrows, swallowed by trees arching like the frame of a cathedral.
After several turns, I squint at him. “You’re not taking me deep into the woods to murder me, are you?”
He smirks, then looks over at me. “Not tonight.”
“Good to know,” I say lightly, though my pulse does a funny little skip when we turn onto a long gravel drive flanked by oak trees. The headlights sweep across branches that meet overhead, swallowing light in trembling patches. The truck rolls forward until the trees open to a wide clearing—and I gasp.
