She laughed—a genuine, unguarded sound that transformed her face. For a moment, the tightly wound wine expert disappeared, replaced by a woman who might actually know how to have fun. It was... intriguing.
"So what's the plan?" she asked, sobering. "How long to Foxfire Valley?"
"About five more hours, give or take. We'll stop for gas in about an hour."
"And after we get there?"
"I need to deliver some equipment to my crew, check in with my captain, and then we can head to Oakcrest Bay first thing in the morning."
"Morning?" Her voice rose slightly. "I need to be there tomorrow afternoon."
"And you will be. Oakcrest Bay is only about four hours from Foxfire Valley. We'll leave by 8 AM, get you there with plenty of time to spare before your big meeting at Sparkling Oak."
She chewed her lower lip, clearly running calculations in her head. "I guess that works."
"You don't have much choice," I reminded her. "Unless you want to rent a car in Foxfire Valley and drive yourself, which would be more expensive and probably take longer."
"I know," she sighed. "I just don't like deviating from the plan."
"I never would have guessed."
She shot me a look. "Are you always this sarcastic, or is this a special performance for my benefit?"
I laughed at having my own words thrown back at me. "Touché."
We fell into a more comfortable silence after that. The beef jerky disappeared gradually, and even Lila seemed to relax slightly, her posture less rigid as she watched the landscape roll by. She had a profile worth studying—delicate features with a determined jaw, long lashes that cast shadows on her cheeks when she looked down at her phone.
Definitely pretty. But the kind of pretty that came with complications I didn't need.
When we stopped for gas, Lila disappeared into the convenience store and returned with an armful of water bottles, protein bars, and—to my surprise—a bag of Doritos.
"Shoe leather and corn chips," she said, tossing the bag at me. "Balanced diet."
"I'm touched," I pressed a hand to my chest in mock sincerity. "You do care."
"Don't get used to it. I just figure a sugar crash is the last thing I need from my chauffeur."
"Chauffeur? I prefer 'knight in shining pickup truck.'"
She rolled her eyes again, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward. We were making progress.
Back on the road, the conversation flowed more easily. She asked about Foxfire Valley, and I told her about the strange mix of casinos, wedding chapels, and fire stations that made up the town. She seemed genuinely interested, asking smart questions about fire prevention strategies and the local economy.
In turn, I asked about her wine expertise, and she lit up like someone had flipped a switch. Her hands moved animatedly as she explained the difference between California and Frenchwinemaking philosophies, her voice taking on a rich, passionate quality that made me wonder if this was how she'd sound in bed.
That thought ambushed me from nowhere, and I forced it away. Bad territory. Very bad territory.
"You're not listening," she accused, narrowing her eyes.
"I'm multitasking," I replied smoothly. "Driving and being educated about—what was it again? Tannins?"
"Terroir," she corrected. "The environmental factors that affect the character of wine. Soil, climate, terrain."
"Right. Dirt and weather. Got it."
She made an exasperated sound. "It's a lot more complex than that."
"I'm sure it is. Just like firefighting is more complex than 'water puts out fire.'"
