Page 10 of Egg Me On

"You have a car? This whole week of motorcycle rides, and you have a car?"

He finally looked up, a hint of amusement tugging at his lips. "Truck."

"Of course," I laughed. "Let me guess. It’s vintage, runs perfectly, and you restored it yourself?"

"1982 F150," he said, with the first hint of genuine pride I'd heard in his voice.

"I'd love to see it," I said, too enthusiastically. Then, trying to sound more casual: "For the grocery run, I mean. But also, you don’t have to drive me, I can just get a rideshare. Or borrow Mira’s Jeep before she leaves for school." I eyed Mira’s empty parking space, wondering if she was staying over with a friend tonight.

Cash turned back to the engine, but not before I caught the smallest quirk of his lips. "Seven okay?"

"Yeah, but are you sure?"

He rolled his eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Fine. Seven.”

Chapter 4

Aiden

The low, morning lightpainted my yard in long shadows as Cash’s F150 rumbled into my driveway at precisely seven o'clock. I'd been waiting on the porch, nursing a travel mug of coffee and pretending I wasn’t jittery with anticipation. The truck was exactly what I'd expected—vintage black with a thin red pinstripe running its length, meticulously restored and gleaming even in the dim light. Just like its owner, it radiated quiet power and controlled precision.

Cash killed the engine and stepped out, all fluid grace and raw strength in a simple black t-shirt despite the morning chill. My mouth went dry as he approached, and I took a quick sip of coffee to hide whatever embarrassing expression might have crossed my face.

"Morning," I called, well aware that my voice had come out far too cheerful for the hour. “Thank you so much, I really appreciate this, you have no idea.”

He grunted in response, eyes scanning my porch as if taking inventory. "Ready?"

I brandished my phone with its meticulously organized grocery app open. "All set. Thanks again for doing this."

Cash merely nodded, gesturing toward his truck with a tilt of his head.

The inside of the cab was immaculate—worn leather seats that had been carefully conditioned, a spotless dashboard, not a single wrapper or receipt in sight. It smelled like leather and something distinctly masculine—Cash's cologne, maybe, or just Cash himself. I sank into the passenger seat, acutely aware of how close we'd be sitting. The bench seat left no center console between us, just a small space that would disappear if either of us shifted even slightly.

"Where to?”

“The Restaurant Depot on Colfax. Then the Saturday farmer’s market. Is that okay?”

He nodded once, then put the truck in gear. The engine rumbled beneath us, vibrating through the seat and up my spine in a way that felt oddly intimate.

Restaurant Depot was quiet this early, just a few other food trucks and restaurants getting their supplies for the day. Cash grabbed a flatbed cart without being asked and followed me through the aisles, pushing it with one hand like it weighed nothing. I tried not to stare at the way the movement made his bicep flex beneath his t-shirt sleeve, or how the fluorescent lights caught the edges of his tattoos, hinting at intricate designs I couldn't quite make out.

"How many of these?" he asked, hand hovering near a stack of egg flats.

"Six cases," I replied, rambling aimlessly about my planned recipes for the week, even though I was pretty sure he didn’t care. I watched as he effortlessly lifted the stack and placed it on the cart. I would have been struggling, but he handled them like they were feather light.

As we moved through the store, I found myself filling the silence with details about my life, my business, everything. He didn’t say much, but I kept stealing glances at his profile, and I was pretty sure he was listening. He had an expressive face—the strong line of his jaw, perpetually shadowed with stubble; the slight furrow between his brows that deepened when he was concentrating; the fullness of his lower lip that he occasionally caught between his teeth when considering something.

"We need bacon," I said, directing us toward the meat section. "Like, a lot of bacon."

Cash raised an eyebrow, and he eyed the shelf of bacon.

"Enough to give a cardiologist nightmares."

The corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile, and my heart did a stupid little flip. Making Cash almost-smile felt like scoring a touchdown in the Super Bowl.

In the meat section, I loaded twenty pounds of thick-cut bacon onto the cart, followed by sausage, ham, and a variety of cheeses. Cash watched me with something like amusement in his eyes, as I told him about how popular the new breakfast burrito recipe I’d tried was, and how I was considering adding it to the regular menu.

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