I shake my head. “I appreciate it. I really do. But… I want my own stuff. Just a quick run into town.”
Gavin’s jaw tightens. “You don’t need to go anywhere.”
“I do,” I say gently. “I need to feel normal. Just for ten minutes.”
He looks like he wants to argue. Then he sighs. “Fine. But you’re not going alone.”
My gaze flicks, without my permission, straight to Chase. He’s standing a few steps back, talking to Boyd and Thorne, arms crossed, listening more than he’s speaking. When he notices me looking, his attention locks in like he’s been waiting for it.
Gavin follows my gaze. “Chase,” he calls. “You’re up.”
Chase’s brows lift. “For what?”
“You’re taking my sister into town.”
Chase’s eyes flick to me, then back to Gavin. “Copy that.”
I nod quickly, pretending my heart isn’t doing a weird, hopeful little stutter. “I’m fine with that,” I say. Which is true. And also a little terrifying. Because being alone with Chase feels… like stepping closer to something I’m not sure I’m ready to name.
We pile into his truck a few minutes later. The door closes with a solid thud that feels weirdly comforting. He starts the engine, and glances over at me. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Nervous. But good.”
He nods. “That’s allowed.”
The drive into town is quiet, but not awkward. The kind of quiet where you’re aware of the other person without needing to fill the space. Trees blur past. The sky is a clean, cold blue. My shoulders slowly unclench.
“So,” I say, “do you always play chauffeur, or am I special?”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” he says. “You’re a VIP threat package.”
“Wow. I feel so cherished.”
His mouth twitches. “You should.”
We pull into Timber Creek like it’s a postcard—brick storefronts, string lights, a couple of people walking dogs in coats that look too nice for dog walking.
He parks in front of the diner. “Food first,” he says. “Then errands.”
“I’m not arguing with that.”
Inside, the diner smells like coffee and pie and comfort. A woman with red hair and sharp, kind eyes looks up from behind the counter. “Well, I’ll be,” she says. “If it isn’t Chase Callahan, back in my establishment.”
“Hey, Greta,” he says easily. “Got room for two?”
“For you? Always. Booth by the window.”
She glances at me, her gaze softening. “You must be new.”
“Is it that obvious?” I ask.
She smiles. “Only to people who’ve been here too long. I’m Greta. You hungry, honey?”
“Always.”
We slide into the booth. Chase takes the seat across from me, stretching his long legs like he owns the place.
Greta brings menus but doesn’t wait for us to open them. “The special’s chicken-fried steak. And I’ve got fresh apple pie.”