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We pass a white-washed sign with faded lettering, and then a long, dirt driveway. Then the road bends, and I see what looks like a small, teal camper up on the right, parked at the edge of a field of crops.
"What are those things?" I ask Mills, squinting at the leafy green things sprouting from the dirt.
"Peanuts, baby. Ever eaten them boiled?"
"I don't know."
"That's a no, then,” he says. “You'd remember. Nice and salty. Soft. A little gooey when you chew them."
“I know something salty and nice.”
Miller snorts, shaking his head, and I snicker.
I park parallel with the run-down camper, and he gets out to order for us. Just as I’m thinking maybe I should get out too, he ducks back into the car with two tin-foil-wrapped biscuits, one tall, amber-colored drink, and a Ziplock bag of pecans.
"Check it out." He hands my biscuit to me. "Unwrap that and smell it. Then throw it in your sweatshirt pocket so it stays warm, and I'll tell you where to go next."
Miller is right—the thing smells fucking amazing. Buttery biscuit, pimento, and a bunch of bacon. Heart attack in a wrap, but I don't give a shit.
"Sweet tea?" he offers, holding it out.
I give him a smirk designed to offend his freckled, Southern boy self. "Really?"
"You knockin' sweet tea?" I almost laugh. Millsy’s up in arms, just like I knew he would be.
"Is it actually good?" I ask him.
His eyes widen. "Is it really good?” He shakes his head. “Go on now. Have a big sip."
I do, hiding a grin behind the plastic cup—and I have to admit, it's pretty good. “Tastes like sugar water.”
“It’s supposed to,” he says.
“You’re so Southern. Such a Southern gentleman.”
He stuffs a pecan in my mouth, and I laugh, nearly choking on the damn thing.
“Okay, okay. Whatever,” I say after chewing. “Both the pecan and the sweet tea were good.”
“Damn straight,” he says as I drive back down the dirt road.
“It’s in my mouth, so…” I pop an eyebrow up, since we know there’s nothing straight about that, and he snickers.
"So that's the best breakfast spot in town, is it?"
"Oh yeah," Mills says. "The one non-locals don't know about."
"Are there a lot of non-locals down here clamoring for breakfast?"
"Shut up, Ezra."
“You love me.”
Miller’s face goes beet red, and I can’t stop a cheesin’ grin. I pinch his check, and he grins down at his lap. I cup his neck with my hand. Warm neck. Shy Miller. He does love me. I want so much to say I love him back, but no one’s ever really said “I love you” to me. It feels too awkward.
Miller looks up at me. “I do,” he rasps. “Love you.”
His face flushed, his blue eyes shining, his hair pressed down on his forehead by an Auburn ball cap. I snapshot it in my brain.
“I love you too,” I murmur. I grab his hand. “I really do. It’s hard to say, though.”
Miller pulls my hand to his leg. “Why’s it hard?”
“I don’t know. I guess nobody really says it much around me.”
I can feel the wheels in his head turning. The way his body goes still and he seems to hold his breath for just a second. I know Miller, and I know he wants to say he hates my mom, or motherfuck everyone who ever knew me before he did. But he’s so damn conscientious, and he doesn’t want to steer the conversation that way—to the things I’m lacking. So he just brings my hand to his lips and kisses the knuckles. And he says, “I’ve been wanting to say it for a while.”
“You have?” It’s whispered.
“Yeah.” He gives me a funny little flat-lipped look. “Probably sooner than would’ve been wise.”
I squeeze his hand. “Confession time?” His eyes flicker to mine, his mouth curving slightly in a way that makes me want to bite it. I say, “Me too.”
Miller grins. “Maybe we should try it again. Just for practice. I’ll go first.” He looks into my eyes. Then he squeezes my hand again. “Love you, angel.”
I rasp, “I love you, DG.”
“I love you more,” he says.
“Well…you can’t.” I give him a smirk. “Because I love you more.”
I’m hard for him. The biscuit’s warm against my abs, and my heart’s beating too fast. Mills folds my hand between his two and kisses the fingertips.
“I want you,” he whispers, sucking on a fingertip.
It makes me groan, so he stops, grinning wickedly.
“I can pull over,” I say, my voice husky.
“Not yet.”
He won’t tell me where we’re going—he just tells me when to turn—but I catch on as we roll into the cul-de-sac of a little side street near the red dirt cliffs that overlook the lake. Out in front of us, behind a rickety old gate, is an orchard. Lots of huge trees—maybe pecan?—all spaced evenly. They roll on for a few acres.
