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“That’s not a no,” she says, pointing at me with a triumphant gleam in her eye. “I’ll take it.”

She pulls out her phone again, thumbs moving at lightning speed. “I’m texting Violet to let her know our plans have changed. Then we should probably get going before the interstate turns into a parking lot.”

I nod, already mapping the route in my head. We could make it to Kansas City by tonight if we push it. Get a couple rooms, start fresh in the morning.

“Okay, let’s boogie,” Whitley says, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. “I’m going to need coffee. Like, industrial strength coffee. I want my eyes to be twitching.”

We head toward the exit, weaving through clusters of disappointed travelers. Whitley chatters the entire way, something about road trip snacks and a playlist she’s apparently been perfecting since sophomore year of college.

Of course she has.

I lead the way to the parking garage, Whitley’s rolling suitcase making a rhythmic clatter against the concrete as she trails behind me.

“Please tell me your truck has decent air conditioning,” she says, already fanning herself with one hand. “Because I will literally melt otherwise. Like, actual puddle on your passenger seat. You’ll have to explain to Violet how you lost her maid of honor somewhere around Missouri.”

I don’t answer, just press the key fob. My black F-150 chirps in response. Maid of honor or not, this is already shaping up to be a long-ass drive.

Whitley stops short. “That’s…surprisingly clean for a mechanic’s truck.”

I shrug, opening the back door and sliding her suitcase in beside mine. No need to explain that clutter makes my brain short-circuit, that I can’t stand mess—not in my space, not in my head. And definitely not in my damn truck.

“Shotgun!” she announces, as if there’s anyone else here to claim it.

By the time I crank the engine, she’s already buckled in and leaning over the console, connecting her phone to the Bluetooth.

“I’m about to save this truck from whatever depressing mountain man playlist you’ve got hiding in here. A road trip soundtrack matters, Beau,” she says without looking at me. “It’s the difference between a journey and a prison sentence.”

I don’t respond, just pull out of the parking spot and navigate through the garage. Her scent fills the cab—something citrusy and sweet, like summer trapped in a bottle. It’s distracting.

“Ah! Perfect.” She settles on a station playing some upbeat pop song I vaguely recognize from grocery stores. “This will do for now.”

I merge onto the highway, hand steady on the wheel. The morning traffic isn’t terrible yet, but it will be soon. Better to get ahead of it.

“So,” Whitley says, angling her body toward me. “Ground rules for our impromptu road trip adventure.”

I glance at her briefly. “Rules?”

“Yes, rules. Like, bathroom breaks every two hours, minimum. I have the bladder of a nervous squirrel, and I refuse to apologize for it.”

That tracks.

The corner of my mouth twitches again. “Fine.”

“And we need real food. Not just gas station beef jerky and energy drinks. I want meals with vegetables and napkins and people who ask if you’d like lemon in your water.”

I grunt. “Lemon water? That’s a rule?”

She gives a coy smile, undeterred. “I believe in balance. So, yes, one gourmet roadside diner, one sketchy taco stand, one nostalgic fast food place. Road trip food pyramid.”

I set the cruise control. She keeps going.

“Oh, and as previously discussed—music. No moody man playlists or murder podcasts. We’re talking road trip anthems.”

“You done?”

“Almost.” She folds one leg under her and repositions in the seat. “I also require a minimum of three scenic pullovers for photo ops. One must include a giant roadside attraction. Bonus points if it’s shaped like food.”

I glance sideways. “You’re serious.”