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“I love the bridge,” he continues.

I grip the wheel.

“Extremely charming,” he finishes.

And here it comes. The sudden, overwhelming desire to make amends and over-apologize and go to such people-pleasing lengths as to declare he’s exactly right. It’s a shamble of a thing, a hazard to public safety, the beams themselves hardly worth collecting for a bonfire.

I bite my lower lip to keep the words at bay and regrip the wheel.

“Isn’t it?” I say, and let it be.

Steady, Chloe. Steeeeady.

James must’ve misread my reaction as continued anger because, with a distinguished swipe over his crisp pants, he gifts a peace offering. Unprompted, he shares, “You know, when I said I’m from New York, that wasn’t exactly the full story. I was actually born and raised for the first eight years of my life in Salem, a tiny, industrial place an hour from the closest rail that would get you into the city. Not this small, of course, but compared to the Big Apple it was a blip. And I remember Salem had this ridiculously corny gigantic electric sign that blazed when you passed the train tracks. It read ‘Salem: A Good Place to Be.’ Not great. Not tremendous. Just good.”

In my periphery, I see him fidget his hands in his lap. “It was an eyesore and old and several of the bulbs often went out so you’d read ‘Salem: A ood Place o Be,’ but even so, the people of Salem took pride in that sign. As a kid I never understood it, but as an adult I think I get it now, how this old, broken-down sign my neighbors loved kind of represented them as they grew older. Their lights were a little dimmer, and maybe things weren’t firing on all cylinders as they had in years past, but still, they held the same memories and were as irreplaceable as that sign. They were all worth valuing for their uniqueness and the gifts they gave over the years. Anyway”—he cranks his torso in a half turn toward the rear window—“the sign isn’t half as picturesque as your town bridge, but it sounds like that’s what the bridge symbolizes to you all. And that makes it irreplaceable.”

Oh.

Well.

I glance over at him freshly. This man with the polished shoes and perfectly wavy, glossed hair. My brows furrow. “What’s your job, James?”

His eyes widen in surprise as he looks back at me. “Why?”

“It’s just . . . that was the most perfect thing anyone could say at a moment like this. You’re quite cleverly defusing with that little story of yours.”

A slow, mischievous grin lights up his face. He relaxes noticeably, and his legs seem to stretch even farther against the glove box. “You caught me. I’m the EVP of reputation management at Summit Operations.”

“Is Salem a real town?”

“It’s a real town.”

“And that’s a real story from your childhood.”

“I never tell lies.”

“Hmm,” I murmur, somewhat impressed. “So what does Summit do?”

“Oversees warehousing, freight forwarding, and customs for multinational companies.”

“And EVP stands for?”

“Executive vice president.”

I dip my head. “Fancy.”

“Not as fancy as you’d think. I deal in communications and crisis management. I put out the fires coming from both outside and in.”

“So, basically, people yell at you all day.”

“Correct.”

“Yeesh.” I turn up the radio. A commercial read by a radio host pops in, and I grin, recognizing the speaker as the same, if not slightly aged, Bob who has been the voice of both 88.4 and a slew of Little League baseball tournaments the past thirty-some years.

“Anything else you care to ask?”

“Nope,” I say. “Your job sounds . . . stressful.”