"It's still good!"
Morgan's smiling now, and it reaches her eyes this time. "I'm sure it is."
I lock up the shop, usher them both toward my truck, and try to ignore the voice in my head screaming that this is a terrible idea.
Bringing a stranger home. Letting her into the space I've protected for three years. But as I buckle Riley into her car seat and Morgan settles into the passenger seat, clutching her duffel bag like a lifeline, I can't quite bring myself to regret it.
Not yet, anyway.
"Ready?" I ask.
Morgan nods. "Ready."
Riley starts chattering immediately about all the things she's going to show Morgan: her room, her toys, the picture she drew of Mr. Shellby, and I pull out of the parking lot, heading home.
I'm in trouble.
I just don't know how much yet.
Chapter 3 - Morgan
This is insane.
I'm sitting in a truck with a man I met approximately two hours ago, heading to his house, where I'll be sleeping in his guest room.
If Annie could see me right now, she'd be losing her mind. Not because it's dangerous, though Mom would definitely have opinions about that—but because this is exactly the kind of thing we always talked about doing. The spontaneous adventure. The leap of faith. The "yes, and" approach to life that Annie championed and I always chickened out on.
*Say yes more,* she used to tell me. *What's the worst that could happen?*
Well, Annie, the worst is probably getting murdered by a small-town mechanic, but honestly? If Casey Brennan is a serial killer, he's doing an incredible job with the cover story. The adorable daughter, the honest-looking auto shop, the whole "aw shucks, just trying to help" routine.
No. I'm being ridiculous. He's not a serial killer.
He's just... impossibly nice. And hot. Impossibly hot and nice, which feels like some kind of cosmic joke at my expense.
Riley is talking a mile a minute from her car seat behind me, something about a turtle and her friend Sophie and how purple is definitely better than yellow for butterflies, and I'm nodding along while trying not to stare at Casey's hands on the steering wheel.
They're big. Scarred. Still have grease under the nails even though he scrubbed them before we left.
I wonder what they'd feel like—
Nope. Not going there. Not thinking about his hands. Or his arms. Or the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders when he lifted my duffel bag into the truck like it weighed nothing.
"—and Daddy says I can't have a turtle because they're too much work, but I think he's wrong because Mr. Shellby doesn't seem like very much work at all. He just sits there and eats lettuce."
I drag my attention back to Riley. "Maybe your dad's worried about who would take care of it when you're at school."
There's a beat of silence, and I glance over to see Casey looking at me with something like surprise.
"That's... yeah," he says. "That's exactly why."
Riley huffs. "Well, I would take care of it on weekends."
"Weekends aren't enough, kiddo."
"They could be!"
"We're not getting a turtle."
