“Well, they’d definitely think I’m a failure then,” I joked with a dry laugh.
But I didn’t miss the beat of hesitation that passed. I briefly considered jumping out of the moving car from sheer humiliation before he opened his mouth again.
“Aren’t we supposed to trade questions?” Rhett said, a not-so-subtle subject change.
I raised my brows at him. “You’re deflecting.”
Rhett smirked and glanced in the rear view mirror. “And you’re nosy.”
“Nosy is just another word for… caring,” I said, lifting my chin with mock loftiness. “So, what about siblings? Do you have any?”
He shook his head. “Only child. Explains a lot, doesn’t it?”
“As an only child myself, I’m going to plead the fifth.”
He huffed a laugh. “Smart.”
The truck hummed down the stretch of two-lane highway, marshy coastline giving way to wide fields and clusters of pines. I caught my reflection in the side mirror—crazy, wind-tousled hair, cheeks warm from the sun slanting across the dash, summer freckles already beginning to fade. Sitting herewith him was oddly comfortable, even through lulls in the conversation or the looming cloud of everything we weren’t saying.
“Okay, fine,” I said, crossing my arms. “My turn. Ask me something.”
Rhett seemed to think for a beat. “What’s the worst piece of pottery you’ve ever made?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” I groaned. “Senior year, I thought it would begeniusto make a life-sized bust of Mona Lisa for the school art show. Except it… collapsed in the kiln. Her entire head just crumbled into rubble.”
The corner of Rhett’s mouth twitched. “Was she still smiling?”
“Very funny. I had to submit it and pretend it was a sculpture of Stonehenge.”
“And did you win?”
“Third place,” I muttered.
He barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “No way.”
“It’s true.” I covered my face with my hands and peered at him through my fingers. I never told anyone that story—I didn’t like showing peoplemoreof my chaos when it was already so obvious. Rhett didn’t make me feel like a screwup, though. The realization made something traitorously tender bloom in my chest.
The radio shifted into an old George Strait song, and Rhett started tapping out the rhythm on the steering wheel. I tried not to stare at his hands—the same ones that put Marigold’s back together, carried piles of lumber, and were apparently incapable of keeping time.
“Fine,” I said quickly, looking out the window. “Next question. What’s architecture like?”
Rhett’s drumming slowed. His shoulders lifted in a shrug, the movement looking anything but casual. “Paperwork,shmoozing with clients… trying not to make buildings that fall down.”
I turned back toward him, searching his profile. The strong line of his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the road. “Do you love it?”
His mouth quirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s money, Georgie.”
Silence stretched between us, filled only by George Strait and the steady thrum of the engine. My chest ached a little. Not pity exactly, but… recognition. I knew that look he wore. I’d worn it too.
I fiddled with the hem of my shirt, then blurted, “You know, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. About your parents.”
Rhett shot me a glance, softer this time. “You’re relentless, Wheeler. Anybody ever tell you that?”
“Once or twice.”
That got me a real smile, wide and warm as he relaxed into the driver’s seat. My stomach did that rollercoaster flip again.
We rolled toward a farm where a tractor inched across the road, forcing a small line of cars to crawl to a stop. Rhett groaned. “Well, there goes ten minutes of our lives.”
