Chapter 12
Two days later, Bear killed the engine of his truck and sat motionless in front of the storage garage just outside of town. His breath fogged the windshield as he stared at the closed bay door. The garage wasn’t much—just a concrete box with corrugated metal walls—but it was dry and secure, exactly what Joy had needed when he’d helped her secure the space last year.
He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, trying to tamp down the flutter of anticipation in his chest. After weeks of watching Joy struggle, of seeing her fight to reclaim pieces of herself, this felt significant. She’d asked him to come help with the food truck. She was ready to work on her dream again.
Bear opened his door and stepped out, the cold air biting at his exposed skin. The gravel crunched beneath his boots as he approached the bay door, already ajar with a sliver of light spilling through. Music drifted out—not the usual country tunes Joy blasted, but something softer, jazzier.
“Hello?” he called, sliding the door farther open.
The scent hit him first—motor oil and metal, yes, but also something unexpected. Vanilla? A hint of cinnamon? Bear stepped inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior.
And then he saw it.
Bear stopped cold, his boot heels scraping against concrete as he stared at the vehicle parked in the center of the space.
This definitely wasn’t the beat-up Tex-Mex truck he’d helped Joy tow in last spring, with its peeling red-and-black decals and rusty corners. It wasn’t even the truck he’d seen a couple months ago when they’d got it into working shape. This was…something else entirely.
Sleek. Elegant. Beautiful.
The entire truck had been transformed from bumper to bumper. The harsh primary colors were gone, replaced by a soothing, creamy purple that reminded him of twilight. The paint Lincoln described as seeing on her arms made sense now. The whole truck was now soft colors.
Delicate script in an eye-catching pink curled across the side—Velvet Mornings—accompanied by intricate hand-painted designs. Coffee cups trailing steam. Pastries arranged on tiered stands. Wild flowers twining along the edges.
Bear took a slow step forward, his callused fingers reaching out to trace the painted flowers along the panel. They were perfect—each petal distinct, the colors blending seamlessly, creating depth and texture that felt almost three-dimensional.
“Velvet Mornings,” he murmured, tasting the words. They didn’t just sound different from the Tex-Mex theme she’d originally planned. They felt different. They felt…unexpected.
Bear had known Joy Davis her entire life—had watched her take apart electronics to see how they worked, had pulled her out of trouble when her dares went too far, had seen her run up and down the town collecting lightning bugs.
The woman who owned this elegant, sophisticated food truck and the Joy he’d grown up with couldn’t possibly be the same person.
Behind him, boots scuffed against concrete. Bear turned to find Joy standing there, a paintbrush in one hand, a rag in the other. She wore faded jeans splattered with paint, her brown hair tied back in a messy ponytail. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her chin tilted upward in that familiar defiant angle he knew so well.
But there was something else in her expression—something guarded, something vulnerable.
“You did all this?” His voice came out lower than he intended, rough with surprise.
“Yeah.” Joy’s voice was carefully neutral, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the paintbrush. “So?”
She looked like she was bracing herself for something bad. For mockery, for dismissal, for him to tell her the truck was the least Joy thing anyone had ever seen.
The realization hit him square in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs.
Hadn’t he just been thinking exactly that? That this elegant creation didn’t match the Joy Davis he knew?
“You did it yourself?” he asked, scrambling to buy himself time to process.
Joy’s fingers tightened on the paintbrush until he was afraid it would snap. “Mostly. I wanted to make sure I could articulate my vision.” She gestured toward the hand-painted flowers. “I did all the painting. Took a while to get the colors exactly right.”
Bear stared at the intricate artwork. Joy had never been the type to sit still for more than five minutes at a stretch, let alone focus on something requiring such delicate precision. But the evidence was right in front of him—she’d created this. And it was extraordinary.
“This is impressive,” he said finally. “And this is what you want? You’re sure?”
Something flickered in her green eyes—hurt, maybe. “Why do you say that?”
Bear scrubbed a hand down his face. “Maybe it just doesn’t feel like you, I guess.”
“What do I feel like?” Her question came quietly, but he heard the edge beneath it.
He hesitated, very aware of the minefield he was walking into. “You know… You’ve always been more?—”
“Let me guess,” she interrupted, voice tight. “You think of me as racing bikes and playing football. Climbing trees and catching fireflies.”
Fuck. He’d just had that very thought. He shrugged helplessly. “Well, yeah.”
Joy shook her head and turned away, her shoulders stiff. “You don’t have to say it out loud for me to know what you’re thinking.”
That pulled him up short. Bear watched her move to the truck, running her fingers along the painted script, and suddenly, he saw it—the pride in her touch, the care in her movements. The truck wasn’t just a business venture to her. It was a declaration.
And he’d just implied it wasn’t really her.
The realization made his stomach knot. How long had Joy been hiding this side of herself? How many times had people—had he —pushed her back into the box labeled wild child when she tried to show something different?
Bear moved closer, taking in the truck with new eyes. Not just the colors or the fancy lettering, but the thought behind it. The intention. The hours of meticulous work. This wasn’t something Joy had thrown together on a whim. This was something she’d poured herself into.
“This is truly damn impressive, Bug,” he said, his voice softening.
Joy glanced at him, wariness still evident in her eyes. “You serious?”
“Hell yes, I’m serious.” He gestured to the truck. “The detail work alone is incredible. Where’d you learn to paint like this?”
A hint of color touched her cheeks. “YouTube, at first. Then I took a class in Reddington City a couple years ago. I go once a month.”
“Once a month? For years?” Bear tried to hide his surprise. Joy had been secretly taking art classes for years, and nobody knew?
She nodded, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. “It was just a hobby at first. Something to do when things got quiet at the Eagle’s Nest. But then—” She shrugged. “I discovered I liked it. And I was kind of good at it.”
Bear looked again at the truck. Kind of good was the understatement of the century.
“This is yours,” he said softly. “It’s not what people expect from Joy Davis, but it’s completely and authentically you.”
Her eyes met his, a question in their depths.
“Took us all long enough to see it, didn’t it?” he continued. “That you aren’t the same girl everyone still thinks you are. That you’ve grown into a multifaceted woman.”
Joy sucked in a breath, her lips parting slightly. “You don’t think it’s…I don’t know, pretentious? Or ridiculous?”
“I think it’s unexpected, but in the best possible way, Bug.” He fought back a cringe at the nickname, thinking it might bother her, but it didn’t seem to. “This is something special. Really special.”
Something shifted in her expression—relief, maybe, or hope. She blinked rapidly and turned away, but not before he caught the sheen in her eyes.
Bear inhaled deeply, his own emotions catching him off guard. This moment felt significant in ways he couldn’t fully articulate. But Joy was still watching him, waiting, and right now, she needed him steady.
He clapped his hands together, falling back on familiar territory. “All right, let’s get this beauty running. What mechanical issues are we dealing with?”
Her posture relaxed, the corner of her mouth quirking upward. “Finally. I was wondering if you were ever going to stop staring at my truck like it was an alien spaceship.”
“I wasn’t staring,” he protested, grinning. “I was…appreciating.”
“Uh-huh.” She rolled her eyes, but the smile blooming across her face was genuine. “Well, appreciate under the hood. The starter’s still temperamental, and there’s that rattling sound in the exhaust.”
Bear moved to the front of the truck, popping the hood with practiced ease. “I’ll work on the mechanics, you keep doing…whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely at the interior.
Joy narrowed her eyes playfully. “This is fine-tuning a perfectly curated aesthetic, thank you very much.”
“Yeah, all right, Davis,” he chuckled. “You aesthetic while I make sure this thing doesn’t break down in the middle of Main Street.”
She laughed—actually laughed, the sound bright and clear—before disappearing back into the interior of the truck. The sound of it warmed something deep in his chest. It had been too long since he’d heard that laugh.
He bent over the engine, his hands finding familiar territory among belts and wires. This, at least, was straightforward. Engines made sense to him—identify the problem, apply the solution, move on to the next issue. But as he worked, his mind kept circling back to the revelation of the truck’s transformation.
How many other sides of Joy had he missed all these years?
Every now and then, he caught himself glancing through the service window, watching her adjust fixtures inside with the same meticulous care she’d obviously applied to the painting. Her movements were focused, precise—nothing like the whirlwind of energy he’d always associated with her.
She climbed onto the counter at one point, stretching to hang delicate pendant lights above the service window. Her T-shirt rode up slightly, revealing a strip of skin above her jeans. Bear swallowed hard and forced his attention back to the engine.
After a while, Joy stepped out of the truck, wiping her hands on a rag. “How’s it looking?”
“She’ll run,” Bear said, his voice rougher than he’d intended. “Still needs work, but she’s solid.”
Joy beamed, and the sight hit him like a physical force. It was the same smile he’d known all his life—open, genuine, lighting up her whole face—but somehow different now. Deeper, maybe. More certain.
Without thinking, he reached out and smudged away a streak of purple paint on her cheek. His hand lingered, his thumb brushing against her skin.
Joy stilled, her eyes locking with his. The air between them suddenly felt charged, electric with possibility.
Bear could list a hundred reasons why he should step back. They were friends. She was still healing. The timing wasn’t right.
But then Joy leaned into his touch, just the slightest bit, and all those reasons evaporated.
He moved without overthinking, cupping her face between his palms and tilting her chin up. Their lips met in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened as Joy’s arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer.
She tasted like coffee and something sweet, and her body fit against his like it was made to be there. Bear slid his hands to her waist, steadying her as she rose onto her toes to press closer.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Bear rested his forehead against hers. “Let’s take this back to my place,” he suggested, his voice a low rumble. “I’ll make you dinner.”
Joy laughed softly. “You don’t need to wine and dine me, Bollinger. I don’t need romance.”
Before today, he might have thought that was true. But not anymore.
“Too bad.” He tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “You’re going to get the romance anyway.”
Because if there was one thing this new version of her food truck had shown him, it was that there was a part of Joy that appreciated beauty, elegance—romance. A part she’d kept hidden, maybe even from herself.
She deserved it all. And he wanted to be the one to give it to her.
The evening light was already fading, the sun dipping behind the distant Teton Mountains, painting the sky in shades of purple not unlike her truck.
“Fine. Not dinner, then,” he conceded. “How about a romantic dessert?”
Joy’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Oh yeah? Exactly what sort of dessert is sexy?”
Bear slid his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. “Anything I get to watch you put into that sexy mouth of yours.”
The blush that spread across her cheeks was new and fascinating—another facet of Joy Davis he was only now discovering. And as he leaned down to kiss her again, Bear realized he wanted to discover all of them, one by one, for as long as she’d let him.