She glances over her shoulder, barely missing a beat. “I made dip.”
“Just…dip?”
“My mom’s recipe,” she adds, like that explains everything.
It kind of does, actually.
I step closer, peering into the bowl. “So this is serious, then.”
“Very serious,” she says. “Don’t mess with it.”
“Wasn’t planning to.” I lean against the counter. “Didn’t know you had this in you.”
She narrows her eyes slightly. “Cooking?”
“Yeah. You’ve been giving off more ‘viral chaos’ energy, not your mom’s dip recipe.”
She huffs a laugh. “Wow. Rude.”
“Just calling it like I see it.”
She dips a spoon in, holds it out toward me.
“Try it.”
I hesitate for half a second. Not because of the dip. But because of her. I feel like she’s mean-mugging me, and then—boom—she suddenly offers me dip.
I step in and take the bite. Our eyes lock for a second longer than necessary.
I pull back, nodding. “Okay. Damn, that’s actually really good. Likereallygood dip.”
“Told you.”
She turns back to the counter, but there’s a small smile there now.
“Try not to eat all of it before we leave,” she adds.
“No promises.”
She points the spoon at me. “Logan,” she says in herbad-dogvoice.
“Cassie,” I reply.
A beat passes, and we both smile.
“Are you ready?” she asks, nodding toward the door.
“Pretty much. You driving?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I figured you would.”
I grin. “Get your dip. I’ll be back down in a few. Just need to freshen up.”
A few minutes later, we’re in the truck the team loaned me for my stay. The windows are down, and the late afternoon sun is cutting through.
It’s a quiet ride at first, but not awkward.
She adjusts the container in her lap. “If this spills, I’m blaming you.”
