Page 50 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Clover’s smile widened and her eyes sparkled like she’d accomplished exactly what she wanted.

Then the office door opened behind us.

Beau stepped out wearing dark work pants and a gray T-shirt, his hands stained with grease despite the relatively early hour. His eyes found mine straight away. Something warm flickered amongst his blue depths. Not desire. Recognition. Like he was glad I’d actually come.

“Morning.”

“Morning sweetheart.”

Clover’s head turned toward her brother.

Then toward me.

Then back toward Beau.

Her lips parted⁠—

“No.” Her brother shut down whatever was on the tip of her tongue.

I frowned. “No, what?”

“Nothing, Clover has to go,” Beau warned. His eyes were firm where they gazed toward his sister. But Clover simply smiled innocently while Walter took a long drink from his thermos.

Beau clicked his teeth. “Ignore her. We all try.”

Clover scoffed. “You all love me.”

“Unfortunately, that’s debatable,” Beau said. Clover gasped. Then smacked him in the arm with the bakery box. I laughed again.

And standing there, in the morning sun, surrounded by people who argued like they had never once considered the possibility of losing one another, I felt something unfamiliar loosen inside me.

For a second, I could almost remember what it felt like to belong somewhere beyond Marigold Ranch.

The feeling frightened me enough that I immediately stepped toward Pops’s truck.

“So. Show me what needs fixing.”

Beau studied me for half a second before nodding. “Come here.” He lifted the hood and I moved in beside him. Close enough to smell soap beneath the motor oil. Close enough that our shoulders almost touched. He pointed into an engine I understood absolutely nothing about and began explaining every repair on the estimate.

Not talking down to me.

Not simplifying things because I was a woman.

Not rushing.

He showed me the damaged belt. The failing pump. The brake wear he’d mentioned over the phone. He explained what could wait and what couldn’t.

I listened, not because I suddenly cared about water pumps. Because I cared about the truck. And because Beau seemed to understand that.

When he finished, I looked at him.

“You really think it’ll be okay?”

His gaze moved from the engine to me. “The truck?”

I nodded.

“She’s old.” He rested one hand against the faded black fender. “Stubborn. Been through hell, and needs more maintenance than she’d probably like to admit.”