Chapter Twenty-One
I closed my eyes and relished the feeling of the breeze whipping against my face as we drove toward the city. Rhett had been quiet, merely drumming his fingers along to the radio and casting me a sidelong glance every once in a while.
The second I pulled myself into the passenger seat, I made up my mind that this trip would be purely business. A friend helping a friend—nothing more. But friends talked about things, right? Attempting to avoid him while stuck in the car together would just be silly. And uncomfortable.
I turned in my seat and tucked one leg under the other. “So, your parents.”
“Was that a question?” he shot back, raising his eyebrows.
“Tell me about them.”
“Right to the point, huh?” Rhett cleared his throat and dropped one arm out the window. “Well, they’re… driven.”
I waited for him to continue.
Nothing came but the sound of country twang as it drifted from the speakers. Dropping my chin in my hand on the center console, I blinked up at him. “Driven by… what?”
He sighed. “Are we playing twenty questions?”
“If that gets me an answer, then…” I pursed my lips and pretended to think. “Sure.”
Rhett sent me a mischievous, twinkling look as we stopped at a red light. My stomach did a somersault and several impressive acrobatic maneuvers.
“Fine. They’re driven by success.” His voice flattened as the light turned green. “And for them, success was money—mainly how much you have.”
“Well, they’d definitely think I’m a failure then,” I joked with a dry laugh.
But I didn’t miss the beat of hesitation that passed. I briefly considered jumping out of the moving car from sheer humiliation before he opened his mouth again.
“Aren’t we supposed to trade questions?” Rhett said, a not-so-subtle subject change.
I raised my brows at him. “You’re deflecting.”
Rhett smirked and glanced in the rear view mirror. “And you’re nosy.”
“Nosy is just another word for… caring,” I said, lifting my chin with mock loftiness. “So, what about siblings? Do you have any?”
He shook his head. “Only child. Explains a lot, doesn’t it?”
“As an only child myself, I’m going to plead the fifth.”
He huffed a laugh. “Smart.”
The truck hummed down the stretch of two-lane highway, marshy coastline giving way to wide fields and clusters of pines.
I caught my reflection in the side mirror—crazy, wind-tousled hair, cheeks warm from the sun slanting across the dash, summer freckles already beginning to fade.
Sitting here with him was oddly comfortable, even through lulls in the conversation or the looming cloud of everything we weren’t saying.
“Okay, fine,” I said, crossing my arms. “My turn. Ask me something.”
Rhett seemed to think for a beat. “What’s the worst piece of pottery you’ve ever made?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” I groaned. “Senior year, I thought it would be genius to make a life-sized bust of Mona Lisa for the school art show. Except it… collapsed in the kiln. Her entire head just crumbled into rubble.”
The corner of Rhett’s mouth twitched. “Was she still smiling?”
“Very funny. I had to submit it and pretend it was a sculpture of Stonehenge.”
“And did you win?”
“Third place,” I muttered.
He barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “No way.”
“It’s true.” I covered my face with my hands and peered at him through my fingers.
I never told anyone that story—I didn’t like showing people more of my chaos when it was already so obvious.
Rhett didn’t make me feel like a screwup, though.
The realization made something traitorously tender bloom in my chest.
The radio shifted into an old George Strait song, and Rhett started tapping out the rhythm on the steering wheel. I tried not to stare at his hands—the same ones that put Marigold’s back together, carried piles of lumber, and were apparently incapable of keeping time.
“Fine,” I said quickly, looking out the window. “Next question. What’s architecture like?”
Rhett’s drumming slowed. His shoulders lifted in a shrug, the movement looking anything but casual. “Paperwork, shmoozing with clients… trying not to make buildings that fall down.”
I turned back toward him, searching his profile. The strong line of his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the road. “Do you love it?”
His mouth quirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s money, Georgie.”
Silence stretched between us, filled only by George Strait and the steady thrum of the engine. My chest ached a little. Not pity exactly, but… recognition. I knew that look he wore. I’d worn it too.
I fiddled with the hem of my shirt, then blurted, “You know, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. About your parents.”
Rhett shot me a glance, softer this time. “You’re relentless, Wheeler. Anybody ever tell you that?”
“Once or twice.”
That got me a real smile, wide and warm as he relaxed into the driver’s seat. My stomach did that rollercoaster flip again.
We rolled toward a farm where a tractor inched across the road, forcing a small line of cars to crawl to a stop. Rhett groaned. “Well, there goes ten minutes of our lives.”
“Patience is a virtue,” I said sweetly.
“Easy for you to say when you’re not driving.”
“I’m more than happy to drive,” I shot back.
“Oh?” Rhett tossed me a raised brow. “You have your license?”
“Well, I didn’t say that.”
He laughed again, and the sound seemed to fill every corner of the car.
We inched past the tractor eventually, and the road opened into a long stretch swathed by wildflowers. The sky was a perfect blue, dotted with tufts of white clouds that could’ve been painted there. I rolled the window down further, letting the wind whip across my face.
“This is nice,” I said softly, almost to myself.
Rhett didn’t answer right away. Then, low enough that I almost missed it, he said, “Yeah. It is.”
The hum of the tires against asphalt filled the silence between us. A hawk coasted lazily above the fields, wings spread wide, dipping and circling every so often. I tilted back against the headrest, pretending I wasn’t cataloging every flicker of expression on Rhett’s face.
A green sign whipped by: Next Services—10 miles.
Rhett drummed his thumb on his thigh. “You hungry?”
My stomach chose that exact moment to growl.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, grinning.
Ten minutes later, he pulled off the highway into one of those half-forgotten gas station plazas: flickering neon, peeling advertisements for ice cream cones, suspicious public restrooms, and a diner with a faded sign that read Milly’s Place.
“No way it’s better than Captain’s,” I declared, eyeing the diner suspiciously.
“Guess we’re about to find out,” he replied as he pulled the truck into a gravel parking spot.
I slid out of the cab and stretched, the stiff ache in my legs almost giving me the urge to exercise. Almost. Hot asphalt, motor oil, and something sweet wafted in the breeze, making my stomach grumble even more.
Inside, the diner felt like stepping into Captain’s Table in an alternate universe. Red vinyl booths lined the windows, a jukebox glowed faintly in the corner, and a waitress with hair piled high and a nametag that read Dottie was dressed in an old-timey uniform.
Rhett nodded at an empty booth, and I followed, tugging at the scrunchie holding up my wind-tangled curls.
“Coffee?” Dottie asked, already pouring without waiting for an answer.
“Please,” I said fervently.
Rhett grabbed his mug once she finished. “Have any cream or sugar?”
Dottie grunted, reached into her apron, and dumped a handful of packets on the table. Next, she slid the menus under her arm toward us, muttering something about the special being “meatloaf or pancakes, no in-between.”
I waited for her to walk away before whispering, “Do you think people have asked for a meatloaf pancake before?”
Rhett smiled. “Or would it be a pancake meatloaf?”
We laughed, and I tried to bury the blush creeping onto my cheeks with the menu. I spent a few minutes pretending to read their lunch section—focus escaped me—when Rhett cleared his throat. Lowering the vinyl-covered trifold, I watched him push a mountain of sugar and creamer toward me.
“So you can drink your coffee,” he said matter-of-factly.
If my face wasn’t red before, it was steadily reaching tomato-levels. Clearing my throat, I brought my mug to my lips and responded, “I’ll have it black, thanks.”
As the acidic, burnt-tree-bark-and-dirt liquid washed over my tongue, I knew I was executing an Emmy-worthy performance.
My hand under the table clenched as I swallowed.
I hadn’t realized my eyes were squeezed shut until I opened them and saw Rhett, lips flattened against a laugh as his shoulders shook and his eyes shone.
“Georgie, I’ve gotten you coffee twice now,” he said in between chuckles. “You don’t have to pretend.”
I let out a long sigh of relief and immediately began ripping them open. “I don’t know why I did that. It seriously made me question why I drink coffee in the first place.”
He leaned back, arms stretching across the booth. For a few minutes, there were no sounds beside the tearing paper of sugar packets and the soft drip of creamer. I didn’t notice he was watching me until I stirred it together and took a generous swig.
“Okay,” he said finally, eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners. “Your turn. What’s the best thing you’ve ever made? Pottery-wise.”
I thought about it, clasping my palms around my coffee and savoring the heat.
“There was this mug… simple, nothing fancy. But it fit in your hand perfectly, with indentations for your fingers and everything. My visual arts teacher bought it and said it reminded her of one her grandfather had growing up. That was the first and last piece I’ve ever sold. ”
Rhett didn’t respond right away. He just nodded, quiet for a long beat, then said, “My uncle used to whittle little figurines in his spare time. Birds, mostly. Said they kept him company while he worked.” He smiled faintly, eyes distant.
“I never got it. Thought they were just scraps of wood. When I came back after he passed, they were all gone—sold at a market. Took me a while to realize I kind of missed them.”
Dottie swooped in just then, tapping her pen against her pad and cutting through the quiet that had settled between us.
I was half-tempted to try ordering a meatloaf pancake, but I decided to see how their cheeseburger stacked up against Captain’s instead. She jotted down our orders, popped some bright blue bubblegum at us, and started for the kitchen.
“Do you think she—” I leaned over to get a better look— “cooks the food, too?”
Rhett put his elbows on the table to peer over at the swinging doors in the corner. “If there’s some gum in our fries, then we’ll know.”
I turned to him with a laugh that immediately died in my throat.
His face was inches from mine, our smiles faltering simultaneously as if I glanced in a mirror.
I perched at the top of the rollercoaster hill as I greedily studied the dark stubble on his chin, the tiny scar on his right cheek, and his eyes that sparkled like gilded chocolate.
“All we need is a milkshake to share, huh?” he murmured.
I dragged myself back to my seat and pulled on a half-convincing smile. “Who said I’ll share my milkshake with you?”
Rhett ran a hand through his hair and swallowed. “I think it’s your turn for a question,” he replied, gaze fixed on the surface of his coffee.
“Okay.” Trying to remember what it looked like to act casual, I sank into the booth and kicked my sneakers up on the seat beside him. My heart still fluttered as I asked, “What do you do for fun?”
A lame question—I knew that. But it was all my Rhett-addled brain could manage.
“Cooking, reading, nothing very interesting,” he murmured, sorting my pile of cream-and-sugar remnants.
“You don’t like carpentry?”
“No, I—” Rhett looked up, eyes bright, and stopped himself. I watched him swallow and slump back into the banquette. “Carpentry won’t get me anywhere.”
“That’s not what I asked, though,” I blurted out. Wincing, I grabbed my mug and emptied it to keep my hands busy.
I hadn’t meant to pry. Of course, he had a life back in California, and a career, and a future.
But when he spoke about architecture, it sounded more like a business transaction than something he was excited to do for the rest of his life.
Alternatively, the pieces I found in his workshop had clearly been made by someone who loved it.
“We were raised differently,” he said matter-of-factly. “I was told my whole life that my uncle was a failure for choosing to do something he liked. So… the message was pretty clear from the get-go.”
“That you’d be a failure if you did the same,” I finished, voice small.
Rhett began folding the empty sugar packets, jaw clenching as he did. He remained silent as Dottie came back with our food, sliding the plates toward us with another snap of her bubblegum. When she left, I pushed his turkey club over and retrieved my cheeseburger from his side.
“Thanks,” he mumbled and dug in without a glance.
I chewed on my bottom lip. The food smelled phenomenal and my stomach growled furiously—but the question bubbled in my mouth wouldn’t go away.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked, barely above a whisper. “I mean—if you decided to do something you love?”
Rhett paused, put his sandwich down, and clasped his hands together. “Anything could happen,” he said unemotionally. “No matter what you do, there will always be a worst case scenario. Might as well take the path of least resistance.”
“But what if that path leads somewhere you hate in ten years? Twenty?”
“Having a stable career doesn’t sound half bad to me,” Rhett retorted. “Are you passionate about flowers?”
I hadn’t expected the shift to land like a swift punch to the gut.
“We’re not talking about me.”
He pulled a hand over his face. “You’re right, we’re not. But maybe we should be.”
“I just think you would want to be happy about what you’re doing with your life,” I added pathetically, barely above a whisper.
“Georgie, please.”
My stomach was doing flips again, but for all the wrong reasons. Suddenly, I wasn’t starving anymore.
After a long, breathless hush, I murmured, “I’m sorry.”
This time, he didn’t correct me for saying it.