Page 40 of Stuck With the Smokejumper

“I've seen that shirt in the window for weeks. I cannot believe you bought it.”

“It's an excellent shirt.”

Beck looks up from his boots. “It is an excellent shirt.”

Dani turns on him. “Your opinion doesn't count. You bought that mating call.”

“The mating call was a completely reasonable purchase.”

“You stood at Alder Lake and blew it like you were trying to summon something. Repeatedly.”

“That's called field testing.”

Nolan wanders in mid-argument, takes one look at Reid's shirt, and nods with real appreciation. “Nice shirt.”

“Thank you,” Reid says, looking pointedly at Dani.

“Nobody asked you either,” Dani says, giving up, waving a hand at all three of them like she can't be bothered to fight a losing battle.

“We're leaving,” I say, grabbing my keys off the counter before this turns into a longer debate than the shirt deserves. “Some of us have groceries to buy.”

“Want to grab lunch in town first?” Beck asks, pulling his second boot on. “Then groceries after, so the cold stuff doesn't sit in the truck the whole time.”

“Look at you, thinking ahead.”

“I have my moments.”

The drive into Timber Creek feels different than it did the first time, though the road hasn't changed at all. Same curves through the trees, same stretch of pines opening up into the valley.

“Test time,” I say, reaching for the radio.

“Again?”

“I have to keep checking. Maybe there’s one you won’t know.”

I scan through a few stations. He gets three in a row without hesitating. I'm about to give up when something familiar comes through the speakers, a song I actually know. I turn it up instead of changing it.

Beck starts singing along under his breath, low, unselfconscious. I stop scanning stations and just listen. “You're doing it again,” I say.

“Doing what?”

“Being annoyingly talented at something.”

“It's a curse.”

I leave the station where it is, and we finish the song. My voice filling in around his when I join in for the chorus.

When we park downtown, he's around the truck before I've even got my door open. His hand finds the small of my back for as long as it takes to walk into the diner, comfortable, like he's done it a hundred times. Maybe he has. There's a version of Beck that existed before this summer I'm still only catching pieces of.

We slide into a booth by the window, no crew, no Reid, no Tessa asking pointed questions. Just us. It's the first time since Silver Bell we've had a whole afternoon to ourselves, no interruptions.

The sandwiches come with pickles on the side, and I push mine onto his plate.

“You don't want them?”

“I don't like dill pickles.”

“More for me.” He eats one, delighted. “I really like dill pickles.”