“Meg is helping out with breakfast,” he tells me as he hugs me close and then pulls back to press his lips to my forehead.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” I admit.
“Why would you think that?” he asks me, looking concerned as he cups my cheek in his big, rough hand.
I gesture at the weather outside and he laughs.
“Only a city girl who drives a ridiculous toy car would think a little snow was a problem,” he teases me.
“My MG isnotridiculous,” I protest, smiling.
“Well, it’s impractical for winters around here,” he allows. “But it’ll be fun to drive in the spring. And for now, you have a chauffeur.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh, and I’m so delighted that he’s in a fun and teasing mood.
“This is the only time I’m going to have you to myself all day,” he says sadly a few minutes later, as he helps me up into his truck.
The truck is nice and warm and it smells like his spicy aftershave.
“We have plenty of time for dates after today,” I remind him as I fasten my seatbelt.
“No more working in the lot until next year,” he says as he gets in. “And can you close the shop for a day sometimes?”
“I was thinking about picking one day of the week to take off,” I tell him, excited that he brought it up. “If it’s in my posted hours, no one will be disappointed. And maybe I’ll eventually hire a helper.”
“That’s a great idea,” he tells me. “I’ll have more time off in the winter than any other time of year. Maybe we can go hiking and horseback riding.”
“The state park?” I ask.
“Exactly,” he tells me. “You’ll love it.”
“I don’t have the best sense of direction,” I admit.
“You don’t need it,” he says. “You have me. Besides, there are trails. And if we take horses, they know the way.”
He pulls out onto Celestial Lane and heads out of town as snow falls all around his truck.
“Music?” I ask.
“Definitely,” he tells me.
I lean forward and press the button and instantly Frank Sinatra is singing his jaunty version of “Jingle Bells.”
“This was Meg’s favorite forever,” Roan says, shaking his head as he thinks about a younger version of his daughter.
“I wish I’d known her when she was really little,” I say without thinking.
“Don’t let my mom hear you say that,” Roan says. “She’s got about a million photo albums. You’ll be looking at them all day, and listening to our old stories.”
“That sounds really nice,” I tell him honestly.
“I guess,” he says, looking a little stormier than he has lately.
“What?” I ask.
“She’ll probably show you my baby pictures too,” he grumbles.
“That’s okay with me,” I laugh. “I like all baby pictures.”
