Later, I tell myself. Take it slow.
“Ready?” she asks.
I nod, and we step outside.
The drizzle has turned into light, cold rain. I jog to the truck and open the passenger door for her, shielding her from the worst of it with my body. She slides in, and I close the door before rounding to the driver’s side.
As we hit the road, the rain comes down harder, fat and heavy drops that splatter against the windshield and drum against the truck roof. I flick on the wipers, and they beat a steady rhythm as we drive.
The restaurant is about twenty minutes away. Far enough from Blue Crescent Harbor that we’re unlikely to run into anyone we know, especially in this weather.
The steak and lobster joint is fancier than the places I usually go for. Folded napkins and white tablecloths aren’t really my vibe. But it’s not that upscale. Not the sleek, minimalist kind of spot Faye must’ve been used to in LA. It’s Midwest fancy, with original oil paintings lining the walls, wooden panels from another era, and decades of dinners done right.
If it’s not up to her standards, Faye makes no show of it.
By the time we’re seated and have ordered our drinks, the weather outside has blown into a full storm. Wind rattles the windows while heavy rain streaks down the glass in sheets.
“I haven’t gone out to dinner in forever,” I say, settling back in my chair.
Faye smiles, her fingers tracing the stem of her glass. “I’ve tasted your mother’s cookies. If everything Mae makes is that amazing, why would you want to eat anywhere else?”
“Fair point.” I grin. “Mom’s cooking is the best. But nothing beats the company tonight.”
Her cheeks flush again, and she ducks her chin, hiding a smile behind her glass.
“Did you go out a lot in LA?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. I was more of a recluse, working on my games. I used to survive on takeout meals.” Her gaze drops to her wine. “I don’t miss that about my past life.”
The words come out heavy. Is there anything else she misses? Not her ex, from what she told me. But after what happened with Abigail, I can’t stop worrying that everyone in my life could be at flight risk.
“I’ve been taking online cooking classes,” Faye continues, her voice brightening. “I love making my own meals now.” She tilts her head, studying me. “What about you? Do you cook anything other than pancakes?”
I laugh. “Yes, but we mostly eat at the old farmhouse. Mom’s cooking is hard to beat, like you said. It saves time. And”—I hesitate, then decide to be honest—“we also don’t want Mom to rattle around that big house by herself.”
Faye’s eyes soften with concern. “Did your father…” She trails off, probably not knowing how to finish the question.
“He died young,” I say, the words easier now than they used to be. “Fell off a horse when he was forty and hit his head on a rock.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” I sip my beer, letting the cold wash away the tightness in my throat. “It was a long time ago.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty. I had to grow up fast after that. Take over the management of Hollow Creek.”
Her eyes search mine, filled with sympathy. “That must’ve been tough.”
“Yeah.” I force a smile, deflecting the heaviness. “It was rough. But on the bright side, it made me great at pretending I know what I’m doing.”
She smirks now, and the mood shifts, lightens. “Mmm, it isn’t all pretense. You seemed pretty competent the other night.”
“Yeah? I feel I could use a few more pointers. Do you give private lessons, Miss Rose?”
“Not usually, but I could make an exception for you, Mr. Evans.”
We fall into easy conversation. Flirty and light, a back-and-forth that keeps circling into small, surprising truths. She tells me about arriving in Missouri and ending up stuck behind a tractor parade. I tease her about surviving city traffic but not cornfields. She laughs like she forgot to keep her guard up, like she’s willing to let me see the parts she hides from everyone else. Gosh, I want that sound in my life every day.
