Dylan makes a low tsk and shakes his head, scanning up and down the street as if the culprit might still be lurking. The crowd here is thinner than it was earlier, people rushing to finish their shopping before night closes in. “Kids these days,” he says finally. “Lot of mischief going around lately.”
“Should I call the police?”
“They won’t do much.” His shrug is dismissive, practiced.
“Then I’ll call Penn?—”
“Nah.” His interruption is smooth, casual, but firm. “No need to drag him out here tonight. He’s watching the game, isn’t he?”
I glance at the ground, unease prickling the back of my neck. “Yeah, but?—”
“I’ll call a tow truck.”
I shake my head, already fishing for my phone. “I have Triple A.” My thumb fumbles across the screen until I find the number. I rattle off the location to the operator, then tuck the phone away. “Half an hour,” I say, exhaling. “Thanks for walking me out. You might as well head back to Snowberry. I’ll grab a coffee while I wait.”
“I’ll give you a ride home.” He jerks his chin toward his car parked a few spaces down.
“No thanks. I can catch a ride with the driver.”
His smile doesn’t budge. “Then I’ll wait with you. Keep you company.”
“Suit yourself.”
I stride down the sidewalk and duck into the nearest café, grateful for the blast of heat and the hum of conversation. Through the wide front windows, I can still see my car under the streetlight. At least it’s in plain sight.
“I’ll grab us coffee,” Dylan says, heading for the counter.
I sink into a chair, fingers worrying my phone. Penn. I don’t want to pull him away from the game, don’t want to make him walk back to the inn to fetch his car, but I do want him to know. It’s instinct already, checking in with him. Like we’re a real couple.
I type a quick message. Flat tire. Called Triple A. Waiting at café in Rutledge.
Fifteen seconds later, my phone rings. Relief sweeps through me at the sight of his name.
“Hey,” I say, smiling despite myself. “You didn’t have to call. Everything’s under control.”
“Are you okay? I can come get you.” His voice is steady but tight, protective.
“No.” The one word comes out soft. Honestly, just hearing his voice has calmed me. “You’re with the guys, and you caught a ride with Jaxon. Don’t worry about me. Besides, you’d have to walk back to the inn for your car.”
“Jay.” His voice is low, almost offended. “You think a walk is trouble? I’m coming.”
“No,” I say again, firmer this time, though my chest swells at his insistence. “I’m okay. Really. I just wanted you to know.”
Rustling filters through the line. “I’m already putting on my coat. I’ll fix your tire.”
My throat tightens, emotion pressing hot behind my eyes. God, the way he doesn’t hesitate. “No, you can’t. It’s actually two tires. Someone punctured them. So please. Stay. I promise I’m fine. The tow truck will be here any minute.”
That’s when Dylan’s voice cuts through the cozy café hum, loud enough to carry across the table, and the phone line. “Wasn’t sure how you liked it,” he says, setting down a steaming paper cup. He drops a couple of creamers and artificial sweeteners beside it. The ones I never use.
Penn’s voice drops an octave. “Is that Dylan?”
Guilt—stupid, unnecessary guilt—flashes through me. I force a light laugh. “Yes. I ran into him at the store. I’m in Rutledge,” I explain, too quickly. Why does this feel like I’m defending myself?
“Rutledge?”
“There was a shop I wanted to hit.”
“What’s Dylan doing there?”