“Alright,” I say, holding my hands up in surrender. “You win. But if you crash, you’re taking a break. No arguments.”
“Deal.”
I glance at the clock on the wall. “I actually have to run a few errands. We need to hit up the butcher for that specialty beef for the weekend, and I want to check the catch at the docks. You want to come with? Keep me company?”
She hesitates, looking around the empty kitchen. “Where’s Eli?”
“He went to meet with the wine supplier. Some vineyard down in Eugene is trying to push a new pinot on us, so he’s down there tasting and negotiating. It’ll take him all morning.”
“Oh.” She processes this. “Okay. Yeah, I’ll come. It sounds better than chopping onions.”
“Great. Grab your coat.”
She turns to grab her purse, then pauses, looking back at me. “Aren’t we waiting for Knox? Are we just going to lock up?”
“Yeah. Knox will be back in an hour, maybe less if the line at the bank is shorter.” I walk over to where I tossed my leather jacket. I slip it on, then reach out and take her hand.
I haven’t held her hand since the night in the office when I admitted I liked her. Her hand is soft, her fingers cold from the outside air.
The contact sends a jolt up my arm, straight to my chest. It feels good. Better than good. It feels right.
“We’ll just shoot him a text,” I say, squeezing her fingers gently. “Let him know we’re out procuring the goods. He can hold down the fort for an hour.”
“Okay,” she breathes, looking down at our joined hands. She doesn’t pull away.
We head out to the parking lot. The snow has stopped, leaving the world glittering and white. I open the passenger door of my truck for her, waiting until she’s climbed up and buckled in before rounding the hood.
The engine rumbles to life, a deep, satisfied growl. I pull out of the lot, heading toward the center of town.
“I just need to make a quick stop at the bank,” she says, breaking the silence as we drive down Main Street. “To deposit my check. I know it’s out of the way, but...”
“It’s not out of the way,” I say immediately. “Whatever you need.”
“Thanks.”
She stares out the window, watching the shops go by. Her profile is tense, her brow furrowed. Whatever is bothering her—and I suspect it’s more than just a lack of sleep—it’s weighing on her heavily.
I wish I could reach over and massage the tension out of her shoulders, or pull the thoughts right out of her head and crush them.
I hate seeing her like this. I want her to smile that wide, genuine smile that makes her eyes crinkle.
I bite my tongue and keep driving. She’ll talk when she’s ready. Or maybe she won’t. Maybe she just needs a distraction.
We stop at the bank. She runs in, quick and efficient, while I wait in the truck, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. When she comes back out, she looks a little lighter, but the shadows are still there under her eyes.
“Did you see Knox in there?”
She shakes her head.
“Maybe he’s already left.”
“Okay,” she says, buckling her seatbelt. “Where to first?”
“Meat,” I say with a grin. “I know a guy.”
We drive to the edge of town, to a small, brick building with a sign that readsMiller’s Meats. It’s not a fancy chain store; it’s old school, family-run. The kind of place where they know their cuts.
The guy behind the counter, a burly man with a white apron stained with blood, waves when he sees me.
