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Betty arrives with our food, setting down plates heaped with eggs, bacon, and pancakes that smell like heaven. I immediately dive in. It’s easier to focus on maple syrup and melted butter than the tightness in my chest from telling Beau something real. Easier to drown myself in coffee and carbs than acknowledge how good his gaze feels on me while I talk.

So I let the food distract me. Let the warmth of it fill the spaces where vulnerability cracks me open. Because if I think too long about the way he listens, I might just unravel right here in this booth.

“What about you?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me. “What do you do when things get too loud?”

He’s quiet for so long I think he might not answer. Then he says, “I fix things.”

“Cars?”

“Anything broken.” He shrugs. “Engine parts. Old furniture. Roof leaks.”

He says it like it’s no big deal, like putting broken things back together is just something you do—no questions, no complaints.

I lean in a little, my fork paused midair. “That’s kind of poetic, Sinclair.”

His eyes narrow just enough to let me know I’m pushing it, but there’s a gleam of amusement behind them.

“I like things that make sense,” he says, voice low. “That don’t talk back.”

I gasp, hand to my chest. “First of all, did you just crack another joke? And are you calling me unpredictable and mouthy?”

“If the shoe fits.”

I lean forward, grinning. “Well, it does fit. But it’s a damn cute shoe.”

His gaze dips, just briefly, taking in my proud look. Then, I swear, I see it with my own two eyes…

He almost smiles.

seven

. . .

Whitley

We’re somewhere in Kansas now. Endless flat fields roll by like a looped background in an old cartoon, and I’ve had to make a conscious effort not to bug Beau too much. He’s clearly in his zone.

But I’m slowly unraveling over here. My mouth is practically itching to say something. It’s been three hours of silence, and I swear if I don’t get some form of human interaction soon, I will spiral into a full-blown meltdown involving existential questions.

I sneak a glance at him. Still stoic. Still infuriatingly sexy.

I clear my throat. Loudly.

Nothing.

Okay. Plan B.

“Beau,” I say, dragging out his name. “If I don’t speak to another human being in the next five minutes, I’m going to lose it. I’m serious. I will start naming cows.”

He sighs, and it gives me hope.

“There’s one. Florence. She looks like she paints watercolors and listens to Fleetwood Mac.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

Victory.

I smile to myself and keep going. “Don’t worry. You’re next. I’m naming something surly and brooding after you. Maybe that mailbox back there. Or that old silo that looks like it hasn’t processed anything since the ‘80s.”