“Patience is a virtue,” I said sweetly.
“Easy for you to say when you’re not driving.”
“I’m more than happy to drive,” I shot back.
“Oh?” Rhett tossed me a raised brow. “You have your license?”
“Well, I didn’t saythat.”
He laughed again, and the sound seemed to fill every corner of the car.
We inched past the tractor eventually, and the road opened into a long stretch swathed by wildflowers. The sky was a perfect blue, dotted with tufts of white clouds that could’ve been paintedthere. I rolled the window down further, letting the wind whip across my face.
“This is nice,” I said softly, almost to myself.
Rhett didn’t answer right away. Then, low enough that I almost missed it, he said, “Yeah. It is.”
The hum of the tires against asphalt filled the silence between us. A hawk coasted lazily above the fields, wings spread wide, dipping and circling every so often. I tilted back against the headrest, pretending I wasn’t cataloging every flicker of expression on Rhett’s face.
A green sign whipped by:Next Services—10 miles.
Rhett drummed his thumb on his thigh. “You hungry?”
My stomach chose thatexactmoment to growl.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, grinning.
Ten minutes later, he pulled off the highway into one of those half-forgotten gas station plazas: flickering neon, peeling advertisements for ice cream cones, suspicious public restrooms, and a diner with a faded sign that readMilly’s Place.
“No way it’s better than Captain’s,” I declared, eyeing the diner suspiciously.
“Guess we’re about to find out,” he replied as he pulled the truck into a gravel parking spot.
I slid out of the cab and stretched, the stiff ache in my legs almost giving me the urge to exercise.Almost. Hot asphalt, motor oil, and something sweet wafted in the breeze, making my stomach grumble even more.
Inside, the diner felt like stepping into Captain’s Table in an alternate universe. Red vinyl booths lined the windows, a jukebox glowed faintly in the corner, and a waitress with hair piled high and a nametag that readDottiewas dressed in an old-timey uniform.
Rhett nodded at an empty booth, and I followed, tugging at the scrunchie holding up my wind-tangled curls.
“Coffee?” Dottie asked, already pouring without waiting for an answer.
“Please,” I said fervently.
Rhett grabbed his mug once she finished. “Have any cream or sugar?”
Dottie grunted, reached into her apron, and dumped a handful of packets on the table. Next, she slid the menus under her arm toward us, muttering something about the special being “meatloaf or pancakes, no in-between.”
I waited for her to walk away before whispering, “Do you think people have asked for a meatloaf pancake before?”
Rhett smiled. “Or would it be apancake meatloaf?”
We laughed, and I tried to bury the blush creeping onto my cheeks with the menu. I spent a few minutes pretending to read their lunch section—focus escaped me—when Rhett cleared his throat. Lowering the vinyl-covered trifold, I watched him push a mountain of sugar and creamer toward me.
“So you can drink your coffee,” he said matter-of-factly.
If my face wasn’t red before, it was steadily reaching tomato-levels. Clearing my throat, I brought my mug to my lips and responded, “I’ll have it black, thanks.”
As the acidic, burnt-tree-bark-and-dirt liquid washed over my tongue, I knew I was executing an Emmy-worthy performance. My hand under the table clenched as I swallowed. I hadn’t realized my eyes were squeezed shut until I opened them and saw Rhett, lips flattened against a laugh as his shoulders shook and his eyes shone.
