"No."
"We do."
"Why? Give me one good reason."
"I have a surprise for you."
I pulled back to look at him. "What kind of surprise?"
"The kind where I can't tell you because that would ruin it."
My stomach clenched. Just slightly. An involuntary tightening that I recognized before my brain caught up — the old wiring, the one that saidsurprises are traps, not knowing is dangerous, someone else holding the plan means you're not safe.
Preston had loved surprises. They always came with conditions.
I felt Clay watching me. Felt him clock the shift — the micro-tension in my shoulders, the way my breathing changed.
"Hey," he said. Soft. "You're going to love it. And if you don't, we leave. Your call. Always your call."
The old wiring sparked and fizzled and went quiet. Because this was Clay. And Clay didn't set traps. Clay set the table, pulled out the chair, and waited for me to sit down.
"Okay," I said. And then, because the old me could go to hell: "Okay, let's go. What should I wear?"
His eyebrows went up. "Something comfortable. Jeans. Boots."
"Boots narrows it down. Are we talking cute boots or actual boots?"
"Actual boots."
"Are we leaving town?"
"Not telling you."
"Are we going to the ranch?"
"Not telling you."
"Am I going to need sunscreen?"
He kissed my forehead. "Get dressed, Callie."
I bounced out of bed. Actually bounced. He laughed behind me as I pulled open the closet and started flipping through hangers with a focus that probably looked unhinged for a woman who'd just been told to wear jeans.
I wore the good jeans. The ones that made my legs look longer. And the boots he'd complimented three weeks ago at the barn. And a white cotton shirt that was simple and clean and made me feel like myself.
We stopped at the bakery on Main. He held the door open. I ordered my tea and he ordered his coffee and we split a box of donuts that had no business being as good as they were.
"These are obscene," I said, powdered sugar on my chin.
He reached across the table and wiped it off with his thumb. Licked his thumb. Held my gaze while he did it.
"You're doing that on purpose," I said.
"Doing what?"
"That."
"I don't know what you're talking about." But the corner of his mouth twitched, and I wanted to climb across this table, but that was probably not appropriate at nine in the morning in a bakery where Clara Mae Henderson was pretending to read the newspaper two booths away.
