Page 113 of In Somnis

“Come on,” he says finally, giving my hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. “I’ll drive you to work.”

The moment we step outside, I realize I have no idea what I’m doing.

Walking beside Paul toward the logging truck feels surreal, as if I’ve stepped into someone else’s life where handsome men show up with furniture and smell your neck, saying things like “I’m not here out of guilt” without explaining what they are here for.

He opens the passenger door for me, and I climb into the cab, the height of the truck making me feel small. The interior smells like work. Oil, leather, and something earthy, so completely different from his Mercedes.

Paul slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine, and suddenly we’re alone together in this enclosed space, and I’m hyperaware of every breath and small movement.

“Is this your truck too?” I ask when he pulls out of the parking lot.

“No, I borrowed it from my brother, Marcus.” He checks his mirrors before turning. “The boxes didn’t fit in mine.”

“Looks like a working truck.” I glance at the worn dashboard. “You can just use it?”

He shrugs. “He didn’t ask questions.”

“And what are you going to tell him when he asks why you needed it when you bring it back?”

His mouth curves. “That I was being a Good Samaritan.”

That should have made me feel safe. Instead, it made me feel stupid.

“Oh.” I turn to look out the window, watching the trees blur past.

A Good Samaritan.

Of course. That’s what this is. He’s just… helpful. Maybe he has some kind of helper syndrome. Sees someone in need and can’t help but fix things. That would explain all of this—the furniture, the attention, the way he keeps showing up.

It’s not about guilt. It’s not about me. It’s simply what he does.

Why do I feel sick all of a sudden?

“Shit. I didn’t mean…”

I can feel his eyes on me, but I keep staring out the window as he pulls into the inn’s parking lot. The moment he cuts the engine, the silence feels too loud.

“I should…” I reach for the door handle. “I should get inside. Thank you for driving me.”

“Lennon, wait⁠—”

But I’m already pushing open the door and sliding out of the truck before he can finish. My boots hit the pavement, and I start toward the entrance, walking faster than necessary.

“Lennon.” His door slams, and I hear his footsteps behind me.

I push through the door into the warmth of the inn, and he’s right there, following me inside the kitchen with my purse in his hand.

Dammit.

Nevan is leaning over the prep counter as if he’s been waiting for me, and when he looks up the moment we walk in, I watch his expression shift as he takes us in—me first, whatever’s on my face, then Paul behind me.

“Hey,” he greets, his liar’s grin sliding into place even though something flickers in his eyes. “Everything okay?”

Paul sets my purse down on a clean section of the counter. “Yeah, just helping Lennon move some furniture.”

“Furniture?” Nevan’s eyebrow raises, but he’s still smiling. “Damn. And here I thought chivalry was dead.”

Paul’s hand finds the small of my back, and the touch sends a shiver through me even though I’m still confused, still unreasonably hurt.