“Yeah, I got that.”
The rest of the drive stayed quiet except for the rain, the kind of quiet that seeped into your ribs and took up space. I kept my eyes on the road, pretending the lines on the asphalt were the only things that needed my attention, even though every nerve in my body was wired to the presence of her just inches away.
I didn’t have to look to picture her—hood half up, curls slipping free, cheek pressed to the cool glass as she stared out into the dark with that far-off expression she got when her thoughts drifted someplace nobody could follow.
I wanted to break the silence, ask if she was upset about me moving in next door, tell her she deserved better than a man whotreated her like a plus one at a funeral. Say something,anythingthat didn’t make me sound like a complete fucking weirdo.
But the words stayed lodged in my throat. Instead, I tightened my grip on the wheel and counted the mile markers.
Eventually, we turned onto her street and the pair of townhouses came into view—identical shapes, different porch lights. I slowed in front of my future dwelling, the one with the little raised garden beds lining the walkway, each one overflowing with herbs and greens even in the winter rain.
People wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but Jared Pink had a green thumb and zero chill about it. He treated his tomatoes like teammates, talking to them while he watered. The rosemary bush by the steps was nearly waist high, brushing against the porch rail as I eased the truck to a stop.
“Thanks for the ride,” Bella said. “And for not, you know, letting me die on the side of the road.”
I cleared my throat. “Anytime.”
She opened the door and paused, shoulders lifting like she had something she wanted to say, and I held my breath.
Goodnight, Bennett.
I’m glad it was you who found me, Bennett.
Lie back while I fuck your face, Bennett.
A guy could dream.
But all that came out was a polite nod and small wave before she stepped into the rain and hurried up the path, disappearing into the glow of the porch light.
I lingered until the door closed behind her. Then I eased the truck forward, the tires whispering against wet pavement.
Somewhere between her driveway and the stop sign at the end of the street, a stupid smile tugged at my mouth. I couldn’t help it. Something about tonight felt like a beginning.
Even if it was the kind I had no business wanting.
Bella
Oregonians had a special relationship with dreary weather. Whereas most people saw cold drizzle and low-hanging clouds as an excuse to stay inside and snuggle, therealPacific Northwesterners just threw on their latest purchase from REI and went about their day.
Minus an umbrella, of course.
According to Nessa, Oregonians “didn’t do” umbrellas.
I might not have been in Rose City long enough to claim to be a local, but I had kayaked on the Willamette once without flipping, switched to oat milk with minimal peer pressure, and could now identify at least three different types of moss.
Take that, Plant App.
The ultimate rite of passage, though, was braving the elements for the weekly farmers market, which was how I ended up spending a drizzly Wednesday morning arranging jars of honey beneath my pop-up tent like a freaking pioneer woman.
“Alright, boss bitch,” Xan said, nodding toward the neat rows of amber jars laid out on the table. “Do you want these according to size or flavor?”
I stood back and put my hands on my hips, weighing the options.
“Size feels logical,” I murmured. “But flavor is more intuitive. Though, if we organize by flavor within size, that creates a hybrid system, which is fine,excepthybrid systems can getmessy . . .”
Xan watched me with the patience of someone who’d seen me reorganize my fridge by color-coded categories. Twice.
“So . . . alphabetizing then?” they asked.
