Weary and wild-haired, he hesitated as his gaze grew heavy. A light furrow formed between his brows. “A what?”
“Gentleman. Honor, decency, courtesy—you’ve heard of it?”
He hummed, a gravelly sound, as he slowly turned away. “I’m afraid not.”
God. She knew him in this mood.
She changed fast.
“Let’s go,” she said, swiping up her essentials from the table and jamming them in her pockets.
He cut to the door, laying his hand on the knob. “Frankie,” he said quietly, half-turning his face to where she stood right behind him. “Did you really get Ava out?”
Her gut clenched—at the fact that he knew and his soft tone. “Don’t tell a soul.”
His eyes met hers over his shoulder. “What other secrets are you keeping?”
“If I told you, they wouldn’t be secrets.”
“A secret can be kept between two people.”
A shiver ran between her shoulder blades. We’ve proven that, she wanted to say. We’ve kept this secret between us so tightly we can’t even speak it to each other.
No, that wasn’t right. She couldn’t speak it—and her silence muted him.
He was watching her. “Promise not to lie to me again.”
“Fine.” Heart thundering, she cocked a brow and made a get on with it gesture for him to open the door. “Let us out.”
“I’m trying to,” he murmured before turning the handle.
She’d forgotten never to put Kris in charge of opening doors. That something so simple could turn into an opportunity to hold her attention. Mostly her fault—he wouldn’t resort to blocking if she’d just have an open conversation with him. She’d been in Sage Haven for almost eighteen months the first time it happened. In hindsight, she should have expected it sooner. He’d waited a long time.
She remembered him driving her home from the weekly trivia night at the local pub.
“Would you rather go to jail for a year,” he’d asked, playing their go-to game as he guided his truck down main street. “Or lose ten years off your life?”
“Ten years,” she’d said without hesitation.
He had been incredulous. “A decade instead of one year? Come on.”
“Two decades, same answer. I’m not going to jail.” She’d twisted her lips, thinking. “Would you rather move to a new town every month or never leave the place you were born?”
“Easy,” he’d said, pulling over in front of the diner. “Never leave. You?”
“Every month,” she’d said. “No risk of seeing my prick dad ever again.”
“Or your friends,” he’d pointed out, his glance tipped with challenge.
“Don’t get sour; I wasn’t born here. If I go with the first option, I’d never have met you at all,” she’d said, and quickly hurled herself out of the truck and away from his grin.
He’d held open the door to the diner for her, no harm done, until she’d passed him and he’d asked a bit too quietly, “Would you rather muck out the stables every time you see your best friend—or make out with them every Christmas?”
Yeah. Kris really didn’t have his head around subtlety.
“Stables,” she’d said. “Nothing wrong with getting dirty.”
He’d made a swift choking sound. In denying her preference to make out with him, she’d thrown his imagination something way more suggestive.
Face flaming, she’d asked, “Would you rather never see Mark or Tommy again?”
“Hey!” He’d knocked her with his elbow as the door closed behind them. “Unfair question.”
Hideously unfair, but she’d panicked. “Choose one or it’s the water jug, my friend.”
Their punishment for refusing to pick an option had sprung from the first time they’d played the game. Frankie had asked, “Would you rather have wet socks on your feet for a year or dry socks on your hands for a year?” They’d both opted for dry socks on hands because they truly hated wet socks—which quickly set up wet socks as the consequence for avoiding an answer.
Sighing, Kris had walked over to the diner counter, toed off his boots, and trickled water from the jug over the tops of his socks. She’d watched, pretending she didn’t have a strange addiction to seeing this man down a layer, even if it was just the cowboy boots.
“Squelchy,” she’d said with a smirk when he returned with boots in hand.
He’d had every right to be irritated, but his eyes had held a soft sparkle. “That was ruthless.”
“Yeah, sorry,” she’d said, turning toward the staircase beside the counter. “Imagine if you’d answered.”
“There is no answer. I don’t like talking about this,” he’d said, walking up the stairs behind her. He’d always driven her home from trivia and walked her right to her door. Faultless small-town