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The bell above the door announces our arrival, and we’re greeted by the smell of buttery croissants, sweet cinnamon, and coffee.
“Choose your weapon.” Texas nods toward the glass display.
“Is it greedy to want one of everything?” My gaze dances across the rows of pastries, each more inviting than the last.
“Only if you don’t share.” He winks, and I feel a warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with the sunlit street outside.
“Alright, let’s split a chocolate éclair,” I decide. “And maybe a couple of those raspberry tarts.”
“Good choice,” he approves, and I can’t tell if he means the pastries or something more.
We find a small table by the window. Taking a bite of the éclair, the rich chocolate and creamy filling sends a shiver of pleasure down my spine. Texas watches me intently, amusement flickering in his eyes.
“Seems like the éclair passes muster.” His voice laced with laughter.
“Understatement of the year,” I reply, my words muffled by another indulgent mouthful.
“Here,” he offers, breaking off a piece of tart and holding it out to me. It’s such an intimate gesture, this sharing of food, and I’m reminded of family dinners long forgotten, of a time when tragedy hadn’t yet touched my life.
“Open up,” he prompts, and I oblige, letting him feed me the tart. The raspberries burst with tangy sweetness on my tongue, mingling with the flaky crust. It’s playful and domestic, this moment between us, and I realize that it’s been ages since I’ve felt this carefree.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Anytime, darlin’,” he replies, the endearment rolling off his tongue naturally, as though he’s been saying it to me for years.
We finish our shared breakfast slowly, savoring each other’s company as much as the food.
“Ready to hit the road again?” he asks eventually, his thumb brushing against the back of my hand.
“Always,” I say, standing and tossing our trash.
Stepping out onto the sidewalk I guide Tex toward a park I go to when I need a break from work.
“Check this out,” I say.
The park is a pocket of greenery cradled by the town’s brick facades. A cobbled path snakes through it, flanked by benches that have heard countless stories and felt the weight of many a heavy heart.
“Nice spot,” he observes, his voice soft, almost reverent in this slice of nature nestled between the pressing walls of civilization.
“Sometimes when the bar gets too much, I come here,” I confess, watching a pair of sparrows dart among the autumn-kissed leaves.
“Seems like a good place to clear your head.”
“Exactly.” Shyly, I look up at him. “Tell me one of your stories, Tex.”
“Alright.” He chuckles. “There was this time in Nevada, stark desert all around, right?”
I can picture it, Texas, a lone figure against the sprawling canvas of the American West, as untamed and restless as the land itself.
“Go on,” I urge, caught up in the imagery.
“Out of nowhere, this sandstorm kicks up. Visibility went to hell, and I’m thinking this might be it, you know? Then, just as quickly, the skies cleared, and there was this perfect sunset, painting the desert in golds and reds like fire. Felt like the world was reminding me how alive I am.”
“Sounds breathtaking.”
“Life’s full of those moments,” he says, glancing at me, “but they’re better when you have someone to share ‘em with.”
“Maybe I’ll get to see one with you,” I reply, feeling bold and daring under his gaze.
