“I’m sorry,” I say.
She glances up in surprise. “For what?”
“For... this. For the way I’ve been acting. For being a knuckle-headed idiot.” The words tumble out. “For acting like I own the air you breathe.”
She gapes at me. For a second her face doesn’t move enough for me to read it. Then her mouth curls into a half grin.
“Quinn the Bold is apologizing?” she asks, her tone teasing. “Is this your first time?”
“It’s not something I make a habit of doing,” I admit. “It’s?—”
She reaches up and cups my cheek, thumb brushing the crease by my eye.
“Quinn.” Her voice drops. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“That’s not the point.” I close my eyes at the warmth of her palm. It anchors me in a way only the land has ever done before.
“I’m sorry I’ve been distant. I’m sorry I pulled away the other night.” I high release a shaky, raw breath. “I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have let you leave go.”
Her fingers tighten. The world narrows until I can’t hear the hum of the truck, the crinkle of foam cups in the console. I know the next moment will decide whether I can be professional and keep my distance, or whether I can be a fool and let the woman of my dreams go.
I lean in.
Her breath catches as our lips meet.
I groan, pulling her closer as she seems to melt against me.
It’s like every small, careful thing I’ve been hoarding—protectiveness, admiration, lust—unspools in that second. Her mouth is warm and soft and exact. My hand finds the curve of her neck and holds, not roughly, but with intent. She answers like she’s been waiting.
It escalates—fast, urgent. Her hands come up, find my shirt, threading fingers into the cloth. I press closer, and her shudder adds fuel to the fire already burning inside of me.
I taste cider and sugar. My head swims. My rational mind turns to static and then nothing.
We pull back in the kind of breathless rush that leaves both of us stunned, laughing a little harshly from the force of it.
She leans her forehead to mine. “I will kick your ass if you go cold on me again.”
A grin tugs at the corner of my lips.
“I’m worried,” I say. “You work for me. I don’t want to mess things up between us or the patch. I don’t want to be the reason either fails.”
Her eyes—God, those eyes—soften. “We can be discreet.”
“Discreet?” I echo. The word tastes like paper.
“Keep it between us until the season’s over,” she says. “We see where it goes. No public displays, no drama. Just…us. After close, like tonight. No fights in front of customers. No getting sacked over it. Deal?”
I let out a breath that sounds like a release valve. Simple rules soothe the control freak in me. “Deal,” I say.
She smiles, the kind that lights from within. “Also,” she adds, leaning closer, “I want a second date. After close tomorrow. You, me, coffee. No maps, no websites. Just dinner.”
My chest tightens with something that feels dangerously like hope.
“Yes,” I say. “I’d like that.”
SIX
TRICIA
