Page 13 of Almost Enough

“This is ridiculous,” I shout over the downpour as we dash around the corner, rain pelting us mercilessly. “You’re not sleeping in your truck!”

He doesn’t respond, just keeps pace beside me, his jaw set in that stubborn line I’m starting to recognize all too well.

I fumble with the key once we make it to the room, my fingers slippery with rain. The lock finally gives with a reluctant click, and I shoulder the door open to reveal exactly what fifty-nine dollars plus tax gets you in rural Missouri. One sagging queen bed with a floral comforter straight out of 1992, a lamp with a crooked shade, and the distinct smell of old cigarettes masked by industrial cleaner.

“Home sweet home,” I mutter.

Beau lingers in the doorway, rain dripping from his hair, T-shirt clinging to his chest in a way that’s unfair for a man who hates attention. His eyes sweep the room once, impassive as ever, but I don’t miss the way his jaw tics. Even this is testing his limits.

“Do you think the floral pattern comes alive at night and tries to suffocate guests? Because that would honestly track.”

Beau shifts his weight, water still dripping in slow rivulets from his broad shoulders onto the sad excuse for carpet. “I’ll grab your suitcase.”

“You don’t have to⁠—”

But he’s already gone, the door swinging shut behind him before I can finish.

I blow out a breath and sink onto the edge of the bed. It groans under my weight. Same, bed. I’m also displeased to be here.

When the lightning flashes, I catch a glimpse of Beau through the thin curtain, towering beside the truck, rain pelting down. Solid and steady, like the storm can’t touch him.

By the time he returns, he’s soaked straight through, water dripping from the ends of his dark hair and tracing down his neck.

He holds my suitcase as if it weighs nothing, even though it definitely does.

“Thanks,” I murmur, reaching for the handle. Our fingers brush. His are rough and cold from the rain, mine warm and useless.

“You’re dripping on the carpet,” I say, because it’s easier than saying please don’t go.

Beau just nods to the door. “I’m gonna head to the truck. You’ve got my number if you need anything.”

“Beau.” His name leaves my mouth softer than I expect. “You’re not seriously sleeping out there.”

His eyes meet mine, dark and steady. Stubborn. “I am.”

“It’s pouring. There’s lightning. There’s probably a tornado siren going off somewhere.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “I’ve slept through worse.”

I have no doubt that he has. I bet he camps in snowstorms for fun and once wrestled a bear just to win an argument.

“Come on,” I press, heat creeping into my voice. “We’re both adults. The bed’s big enough. We can share it without…” I wave a hand vaguely between us, trying to magically explain the thing I absolutely refuse to say out loud.

His jaw ticks, and he looks past me like he’s searching for an escape hatch in the motel wallpaper. “Not a good idea.”

“Why?” I challenge, folding my arms. “Afraid I’ll snore? Talk in my sleep? Hog the covers? I’m very considerate in bed. Roommate-wise, I mean.” I wince. “That came out wrong.”

Amusement flashes in his eyes for the briefest second.

“Go ahead. Make a joke, Broody McThundercloud. I walked right into it.”

“I wasn’t gonna.” He lifts his brows, voice lower now. Rougher. “You did a fine job all on your own.”

I stare at him, heart thudding a little too hard in my chest. “Are you really going back out there?”

He doesn’t answer. Not out loud. But the way his eyes drag over me for half a second too long, the way his hands flex at his sides like he’s resisting something—it says everything.

“Fine,” I concede. “Go be noble in your pickup truck. But if you get struck by lightning, I’m not doing your eulogy. I don’t even know your middle name.”