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"I don't care."

A laugh rumbles out of him before he shakes his head.

The bastard already knows he's lost.

"Fine," Clint concedes.

"Thank you."

"You owe me."

"I do."

The conversation is done after that. We move on to talking about ranch work, and whether Briggs is ever going to pull his head out of his ass. By the time I finally head upstairs, tomorrow belongs entirely to me.

The only problem is, I still don't actually have a plan.

Which is why I wake up the next morning with exactly the same amount of planning done as I had the night before.

Absolutely none.

I find Autumn standing in the kitchen pouring herself coffee. Her hair is still messy from sleep, and one of my t-shirts hangs off her shoulder. She looks comfortable.

“Morning, Sweetheart.” I toss her a set of truck keys.

The keys hit her chest as she turns around, before falling to the floor, and she looks down, then up at me.

"What are these?"

"A surprise."

Her eyes narrow immediately. "That's concerning."

I grin. "Get dressed and put your shoes on."

Ten minutes later, we're heading toward town with the windows down and country music drifting through the speakers. Autumn's got one arm resting on the open window frame, sunlight catching in her hair. Neither of us talks much, not because it's awkward, quite the opposite.

The longer she's been here, the more I realize I like the quiet moments just as much as the loud ones.

Maybe more.

The first stop ends up being ice cream because Autumn spots the little shop on Main Street and immediately points at it. Minutes later, we're sitting outside while she tells me mint chocolate chip is the greatest flavor ever created.

"It tastes like toothpaste."

"It does not." She raises her lip in disgust.

"It absolutely does."

She gasps, and her cone pauses halfway to her mouth.

"You're impossible."

"I'm right."

"You're old, and have obviously lost your tastebuds."

"I'm twenty-six."