Chapter 3 #2
There's a weight to his words that resonates with my own experiences. "I get that. My last relationship ended because he took a job in London. We both said we'd try to make it work, but in the end, neither of us was willing to give up our career for the other."
"It's a tough choice," Jude agrees. "What would it take, do you think? For you to consider compromising on your career?"
The question feels significant, though I'm not sure why. "I don't know," I answer honestly. "Something—someone—extraordinary, I guess. Someone worth taking a risk for."
Our eyes meet across the table, and for a moment, something unspoken passes between us. I look away first, suddenly very interested in my fries.
"What about you?" I ask, turning the question back on him. "Would you ever consider leaving your ranch for the right person?"
"Six months ago, I would have said absolutely not," he says slowly. "Now... I'm not so sure."
"What changed?"
"Me, I guess." He looks down, fidgeting with his napkin. "I've been thinking lately about what it means to build a life, not just a business. The ranch is my dream, but sometimes I wonder if I've been hiding there."
"Hiding from what?"
"From taking chances. From the possibility of getting hurt." He meets my eyes again. "From letting anyone get close enough to matter."
The honesty in his voice creates a knot in my throat. I recognize the feeling he's describing because I've done the same thing. I’ve used my career as a shield against the messiness of real connection.
"Turns out we might have more in common than I thought," I say softly.
The waitress stops by to clear our plates and ask about dessert.
"Two slices of pie," Jude says before I can answer. "Whatever's freshest."
"Apple just came out of the oven," she tells us. "à la mode?"
"Yes," we both say simultaneously, then look at each other and laugh.
"Coming right up." She bustles away with our empty plates.
"Some things never change," I comment. "We still have the same taste in desserts, at least."
"And the same tendency to retreat when conversations get too real," he points out gently.
I start to deny it, then stop myself. "Fair point. Old habits."
"For both of us," he acknowledges. "Maybe this road trip is a chance to break some of those patterns."
The pie arrives, steam still rising from the flaky crust, vanilla ice cream melting slowly on top. We dive in eagerly.
"Oh my God," I moan around my first bite. "This is incredible."
Something flickers in Jude's eyes at my reaction, but it's gone before I can identify it. "Told you. Always get the pie."
"Sage advice." I take another bite, savoring the perfect balance of sweet apples and cinnamon. "I'll add it to my life rules right after 'never get on planes that might crash in Kansas.'"
"If you hadn't crashed, you wouldn't be experiencing this pie right now. Sometimes disaster leads to unexpected benefits."
There's something in his tone that makes me look up. He's watching me with an intensity that sends a flutter through my stomach.
"Like being stuck on a road trip with your high school nemesis?" I try to keep my voice light.
"Were we really enemies?" he asks quietly. "I always thought of us as... I don't know. Something more complicated than that."
The air between us changes, charges with something I'm not ready to name. I focus on my pie, using the dessert as a shield against whatever is happening here.
"We should probably head back after this," I say, deliberately changing the subject. "We need an early start tomorrow if we want to make good time."
He accepts the deflection with a slight nod. "Hoping to make it at least to Saddleback by tomorrow night. That'll leave us with a shorter drive to Georgia on Friday."
"Sounds like a plan."
We finish our pie in silence, though it's not uncomfortable. When the check comes, Jude snatches it before I can even reach for it.
"I've got this," he says.
"At least let me leave the tip."
He shakes his head. "I've got it all. You can get the next one."
"Fine," I concede, not willing to argue over a dinner bill. "But I'm buying breakfast tomorrow."
As we step outside the diner, the night air has cooled considerably, and I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I'd brought a jacket. The sky has cleared completely, revealing a canopy of stars more brilliant than anything visible in Seattle.
"Wow," I breathe, tilting my head back to take in the view.
Jude follows my gaze upward. "Not bad, right?"
"Not bad at all." I smile despite the chill. "Sometimes I forget there are this many stars."
Without a word, Jude shrugs out of his jacket and places it around my shoulders. The warmth of his body lingers in the fabric, enveloping me in his scent of soap, leather, and something uniquely him.
"Thanks," I murmur, pulling it closer.
"Can't have you freezing before we make it to Georgia," he says, but there's a gentleness in his voice that wasn't there before.
We walk toward the truck, parked at the far end of the diner's lot. The vintage neon sign casts alternating red and blue light across Jude's features as we pass beneath it. For a moment, caught in that glow, he looks so different from the boy I thought I knew—more substantial somehow, more real.
"We should probably head back to the motel," I say, though I'm reluctant to end the evening just yet. Something has shifted between us during dinner, a tentative truce that feels fragile enough to shatter with too much examination.
Jude stops at the truck but doesn't immediately open the door. "Actually, I noticed a scenic overlook about a mile up the road when we were driving in. Might be worth checking out with the stars like this."
I should say no. We have an early start tomorrow, and spending more time alone with Jude when my defenses feel increasingly shaky isn't the smartest move.
Instead, I hear myself saying, "Lead the way."
He smiles, a genuine smile that reaches his eyes and does funny things to my insides. As he starts the engine and pulls back onto the road, I tell myself it's just the pie making me feel warm and slightly lightheaded.
It has nothing to do with the man beside me, or the way this night suddenly feels full of possibility. Nothing at all.