“Yeah,” I say. “Just waiting. Small towns—apparently every driver’s asleep by midnight.”
“Wouldn’t know,” he says. “I’m from New York. Everything’s open till morning there.”
“Culture shock, huh?”
“Something like that.” He glances toward the empty street, then back to me. “Can I drop you off? Doesn’t feel right leaving you here alone.”
“That’s sweet, but my ride’s almost here.”
He studies me for a moment, then smiles. “It’s cold. At least wait in the car with me. You can see the headlights from there.”
I hesitate, then laugh. “You do realize how that sounds, right? I don’t even know your last name. For all I know, you could be a serial killer.”
“Really? Serial killer?”
“You could be.” I grin.
He grins, pulling his wallet from his pocket. “Fair point.” He hands me his ID. “See? Completely legitimate serial killer.”
The card’s real—Knox Hill, photo, birthday,New York City.
“At least you weren’t lying about the city,” I say, handing it back. “Thirty-three, huh? You don’t look it.”
He chuckles. “Not sure if that’s a compliment or a diss.”
“Diss? Okay,old man.And for the record, it’s both,” I say before I can stop myself.
He tilts his head. “How about you?”
I freeze. This night has been going on so great. I’m not sure why I dodge the question, though. Probably the thirteen-year age gap between us. “A gentleman never asks a lady her age.”
He laughs, the sound rich. “Fair enough. Can I ask for company, then?”
“That you can.”
We cross the lot together. His truck’s parked beneath a broken light, dark blue with a dusting of salt along the sides. He opens the passenger door for me. The interior smells like him—leather and cedar, a hint of spice.
He turns the ignition, the heater humming to life. “You sure this is okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “Warmer than out there.”
He adjusts the vents toward me. “Does it usually take this long for rides around here?”
“Most nights.”
He leans back, fiddling with the radio. Static, then a country station, then something slow and quiet. His hand is on the dial longer than necessary.
He’s nervous. It hits me in the silence between us, the kind that hums rather than sits still.
“Knox?”
He glances over. “Mmh?”
“If I asked you to kiss me right now,” I say softly, “would you?”
His eyes lift to mine, caught somewhere between surprise and want. His voice drops. “That depends.”
“On?”
