Page 23 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

I looked toward the rain streaking across the office window, then at Pops’s photograph on the wall.

Pops had trusted Walter Jones.

He had trusted Beau enough to employ him.

For today, I would have to let that be enough.

“Fine,” I said. “But I’m paying you for the deliveries.”

“We’ll discuss that later.”

“That means no.”

“That means the milk is getting delivered before we waste time arguing.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. His expression remained perfectly calm, though something amused flickered behind it.

Bossy.

He was far too bossy.

And yet, for the first time since Pops’s truck began slowing on Highway Ninety, I no longer felt as though the entire day was collapsing around me.

I wasn’t sure whether that made Beau Jones helpful or dangerous.

Possibly both.

Chapter

Four

BEAU

Carson waited until I opened the passenger door before climbing into my truck.

I had expected another argument. She had spent most of the afternoon resisting every offer of help, as though accepting one might result in a debt she could never repay. But the rain had only worsened, her phone had barely regained enough charge to call home, and Pops’s old Chevrolet wasn’t leaving Jones Automotive until I could track down the parts it needed.

Maybe exhaustion had finally won.

Or maybe she had decided I was marginally safer than walking another thirty minutes through a thunderstorm.

Either way, I took the victory quietly.

She settled against the seat with my jacket still wrapped around her shoulders and placed both hands over the vent as warm air rushed from the dashboard. Her damp hair was still drying in uneven waves around her face, but a faint pink had finally returned to her cheeks.

“Seat belt,” I reminded her before closing the door.

Her green eyes narrowed. “I know how a vehicle works.”

“Your current vehicle would suggest otherwise.”

Her mouth fell open.

I shut the door before she could answer and walked around the front of the truck, smiling despite myself. The second I climbed behind the wheel, she pointed a finger at me.

“My truck is nearly forty years old. Its mechanical failure is not a reflection of my intelligence.”

“I never said it was.”