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"Definitely debatable."

I stepped closer. Her gaze flicked to my mouth. Just for a second. But I caught it. And suddenly, the air between us felt a whole lot warmer.

"Come on, Parsons. Let me spoil you a little."

Something flashed across her face. Surprise, maybe. Or the same dangerous awareness currently doing a number on my self-control.

Then she shook her head. "Fine. But I'm not listening to you complain about my driving."

I held up my keys. "Won't be a problem."

"Why not?"

"Because you're riding shotgun, Princess."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Princess?"

"Passenger Princess. Very prestigious position. Excellent benefits."

"Such as?"

"Door-to-door service. Complimentary coffee. Handsome chauffeur."

She looked me up and down.

"Handsome is subjective."

"You're killing me, Parsons."

She laughed. A real laugh. And I would've driven her to the moon if it meant hearing it again.

She sighed with resignation. “Chauffeur service? I could get used to this.”

Yeah, that was the plan.

7

SYNCHRONIZED SMALL TOWN SCRUTINY

Mikayla

When Damon wrapped his fingers around my hand to help me up into the passenger seat, the calluses of his palm grazed my own, and something in my chest made an undignified, startled leap. I was not the kind of woman to swoon over hand-holding or to get lightheaded from a man’s touch, but there it was: the sudden, unbidden sensation that this man’s hands were meant to fit around mine.

I moved to release him, but he caught my fingers for another heartbeat, his thumb brushing the bones of my knuckles like he was reading some secret code there, before letting go. Then he shut the truck door with a decisive thunk, sealing me in a capsule redolent of pine and leather and the faintest whiff of clean sweat.

Damon circled the hood, and I took the moment before he climbed in to exhale.

“Just breathe, Mikayla,” I counseled myself. This wasn’t a date, it was an errand. I’d driven in cars with men before. But never with him.

The engine turned over, and the sound was low and reassuring. He glanced at me, lips quirked at the corner, and I realized I was staring straight ahead, white-knuckling the seat like a teenager on her first driving lesson.

“You good?” His voice was calm and warm, like a weighted blanket tossed over my nerves.

I lied, “Always.”

He grinned, pushed the gearshift into reverse, and guided us smoothly down the gravel of the ranch’s long, winding drive. The rising sun dipped below the barn roof, the sky shone that saturated apricot that never looked real in pictures.

Damon drove one-handed, comfortable, casual, but every small movement of his fingers on the wheel was athletic, precise, controlled.