The shift in topic throws me. "Harper talks too much."
"Actually she didn’t say it. I guessed. Sounds like I guessed right?"
I settle into the armchair by the fire, putting space between us. "Define player."
"Someone who dates around. Doesn't commit. Breaks hearts."
"I don't break hearts."
"No?"
"I'm honest about what I'm looking for. That's not the same thing."
"What are you looking for?"
It's a direct question. Madison Tate doesn't seem to deal in anything but direct.
"I'll know when I find it," I say.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
She considers this, tilting her head. The firelight catches her face, and I notice things I shouldn't: the line of her jaw, the curve of her mouth, the way she looks at me like she's solving a puzzle.
"What about you?" I ask. "Any broken hearts in your wake?"
"One or two. Nothing I'm proud of."
"Recent?"
"Recent enough." She sets down her mug. "His name was Mason. We were together for two years. He supported my dreams right up until they inconvenienced him. I chose the food truck. He chose to leave."
"Sounds like you made the right call."
"Maybe. Still hurt."
We're quiet for a moment. The fire crackles. The storm howls.
Careful, I tell myself.
This is how it starts. Then expectations creep in. Then disappointment. Then the same conversation I've had a dozen times:I thought you were different. I thought this was going somewhere.
Madison will leave as soon as the storm clears. She has a route, a schedule, a life that doesn't include Wylde Mountain or me. Whatever this is, it has a built-in expiration date.
Which makes it safe. In theory.
"Tell me about the food truck," I say, changing the subject. "What's your specialty?"
She accepts the redirect without comment. "Cinnamon rolls. Fresh, gourmet, twenty-three varieties."
"Twenty-three?"
"I have range."
"That's not range, that's obsession."
"Passionate focus," she corrects.
