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“That’s all they had?” I ask, horrified.

He shrugs. “Jerky was expired.”

“Fantastic,” I deadpan. “We’re going to starve somewhere between Indiana and hell.”

Beau opens the passenger door for me without a word, and I narrow my eyes as I climb in.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that was almost chivalrous,” I say before he pushes the door closed and walks around to his side.

He slides in. “I’ll stop doing it if it makes you uncomfortable.”

I grin. “Nope. Just marking the moment for the history books.”

For a man who barely speaks in full sentences and looks at me like I’m an overactive radio he can’t turn off, he sure has a habit of being…thoughtful.

Which is dangerous. Because thoughtful is a slippery slope to something that looks a lot like affection, and affection is a slippery slope to feelings, and I am not catching feelings for Beau Sinclair in the middle of a road trip that includes a bathroom that could qualify as a crime scene.

I sneak a glance at him as he merges back onto the highway. One hand on the wheel, the other resting loose on the console. His jaw flexes once, chewing on some thought he’ll never say out loud. That furrow between his brows is still there—his signature expression.

It’s fine. I can handle broody and hot. I can handle kind gestures and chiseled arms and the way he smells like soap and cedar and whatever deep woods secret he’s keeping.

I can definitely handle this.

“Shut the front door. What do you mean there’s only one room?”

The motel clerk, a middle-aged man with a mustache that looks like it’s trying to escape his face, shrugs apologetically. “You’re lucky I’ve got anything at all.”

“But,” I sputter, gesturing wildly between Beau and myself.

“One queen bed, private bathroom, fifty-nine dollars plus tax,” the clerk continues, sliding a form across the counter. “Take it or leave it.”

I whirl around to look at Beau, who’s standing there as if this is a perfectly reasonable development in our journey.

The neon vacancy sign flickers outside the window, casting an eerie red glow across the parking lot where sheets of rain are coming down so hard I can only see the truck.

“We’re somewhere in the middle of Missouri with a biblical flood happening outside.” I groan at Beau, lowering my voice. “There’s literally nowhere else to go.”

Beau just shrugs, his face a mask of indifference. “I’ll sleep in the truck.”

“The truck?” I stare at him incredulously. “In that?” I gesture toward the window where lightning flashes, illuminating the parking lot that’s rapidly turning into a shallow lake.

“Been in worse,” he says simply.

The clerk clears his throat. “So…you taking the room or not? Got three more calls waiting, folks stuck on the interstate.”

I glance between Beau’s passive expression and the downpour outside. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t offer a compromise or even blink. Just stands there, all broad shoulders and stonewall silence, like sleeping in his truck is a perfectly reasonable option.

Of course he’d rather face a night in his pickup than share a room with me.

Cool. Love that for me.

“Fine,” I say, snagging the registration form off the counter. “I’ll take it.”

The clerk’s brows inch up as he slides a brass key across the counter. An actual key, not a card. “Room 114. Around the corner, ground floor.”

Perfect. Nothing screams murder mystery like a roadside motel in the middle of a thunderstorm.

I grab the key, my purse, and my dignity, which is somehow the heaviest of the three, and head back out into the storm. Beau follows silently.