I have to respect her boundary. But it’s eating at me. Because whatever is unresolved between her and the twins’ father will eventually intersect with me. Snow Valley will ensure it.
Whatever the situation, I’m not afraid of a little gossip.
In fact, I’d be happy to give them something to talk about.
17
PERRY
Damian’s truckmakes me feel like I’ve made a good decision.
Which is absurd. It’s just a truck.
But it’s clean without being flashy. Dark gray. Solid. The kind of vehicle that says I do practical things and I don’t need you to clap about it. It’s at least ten years old, and a little beat-up. It smells like coffee and cedar and faint leather. Him. The dashboard is scuffed in places, not pristine. There’s a baseball cap in the back seat. It feels lived-in.
I have a ridiculous urge to reach over and touch his arm. Instead, I buckle my seat belt.
“So, what is Dos Hermanos like?” He pulls onto the road. “I don’t think I’ve been.”
“That’s because you’re respectable.”
“And you’re not?”
“Respectability is not a priority so much as really good food is.”
He smirks at that.
We head toward the next town over. Snow Valley starts thinning—fewer manicured lawns, fewer symmetrical houses that look like they were built from the same Pinterest board. As much as it’s the perfect place for hunting millionaires, I’m always relieved when I get to escape.
“I figured,” I say casually, “that maybe we don’t need an audience.”
He nods once. “How do you mean?”
“I’ve been coming here for years,” I continue. “My hairstylist told me about it.”
“That’s a trustworthy source.”
“She said Dos Hermanos is where people go when they don’t want to be seen.”
“And you thought we need privacy?”
“Keeps the gossip to a minimum, right?”
He shrugs. “With any luck.”
The memory of him spotting me on my Wesley Disaster Date still makes me cringe. Snow Valley is small. You can’t sneeze without someone knowing what brand of tissue you used, and right now, I am not interested in being the town’s next scandal.
I have enough going on.
Dos Hermanos sits behind a grocery store and a laundromat, like it doesn’t want to be found. No flashy signage. Just a glowing red script and warm light leaking out of the windows. We park in the back lot.
“You like hiding,” he says as we walk toward the entrance.
“I like control.”
“I’m getting that.”
Inside, it smells like grilled meat, lime, and something fried and delightful. The lighting is festive but warm, not moody in a pretentious way. Just soft enough that you don’t feel examined, but bright enough to see your food.
