I glance over my shoulder at my car. “Hey.” I turn and find them both looking at me. “Since you’re both here, do either of you know how I could get my hands on enough gas to get back to town?” I half smile, half wince at their reactions.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mira,” Hartley says, shaking his head in exasperation.
“What? I was in a hurry,” I say. “That last quarter tank justgoes. It goes so fast that my fuel gauge might be faulty.”
Bobby laughs. “I’m glad some things don’t change. It gives me hope for the future.” He starts toward the barn. “Good to see you, Mira.”
“You, too,” I call after him.
Hartley heads to his truck bed and slides two gas cans to the tailgate.How is he this prepared?He moves without looking at me, like it’s a normal day at work and I’m not standing next to him. But a vein in the side of his neck pulses as he lifts the plastic jugs, and I think that has more to do with me than the weight of the bottles.
My heart thumps wildly as I watch him carry one to my car. He hasn't exactly agreed to take Pigasso, nor has he accepted my apology.Worst of all?He acts like he doesn’t want to speak to me.
And no matter what’s going on between us—good, bad, or otherwise—healwaysspeaks to me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, stumbling over my words.
“Don’t worry about it.”
His tone makes me worry even more.
“Hart …” I groan, stepping out of his way. “I really am sorry about this. I’ll get Pigasso out of here as soon as I can.”
He fills my tank and then tosses the empty jug back into his truck. “I said, don’t worry about it.”
“But the words aren’t really matching the tone, you know?”
We stare at each other for a few seconds that stretch longer than they should.
When Hartley looks at me like this, everything stills. The world slows. The noise that’s constantly rumbling through my head—worries, questions, and memories—is stripped away. I’m left with nothing to hide behind.
It’s just me. Exposed. Vulnerable. Bared before him.
And unfortunately …I don’t hate it.
I’ve thought about how Hartley looks at me a million times, because vulnerability has never come easy to me. It’s wrecked more relationships than I can count. But with Hartley, it’s different.
There’s no judgment when he sees the ugly parts of me. No teasing, no softening it into a joke that makes it an easier pill to swallow. He doesn’t try to fix what he sees either.
He just …sees it. Seesme.
It’s like he understands the way I’m built, like he sees more than he’s ever said out loud. The same way he knew, all those years ago, to compliment my shoes. And instead of being anxious about being such an unintentional open book with him, it’s almost a relief.
“How have you been?” he asks, his voice deeper than before. This isn’t the one he uses while working, or with Cathy, or the people at Piper’s Pizza. It’s a little rough around the edges and a touch rawer—a bit unguarded.
I can’t help but clock that immediately.
“I’m good,” I say, toeing at a rock with the tip of my sneaker. “Lolly asked me to come home for a few days, and you know you can’t say no to her.”
He smiles. “Wouldn’t be a smart move.”
I return his reaction as warmth blooms in my stomach.
“Where are you living these days?” he asks.
“I’ve been staying in Kentucky for the last year or so. But, you know, not on a ranch where I can have Pigasso.”
He chuckles softly. “Your business is still going good? People still needing emails written for them?”
