Page 42 of Collect the Pieces

“Oryoucan keep me warm.”

Chuckling, I turn her toward the truck, open the back door, and toss her bag inside, then walk her to the passenger side. “I plan to. Don’t worry.”

I swing her door open and wince as the hinges squeak. “Ahh, it’s not really…”worthy of you.“In the best shape. It runs great, we won’t get stranded or anything,” I hurry to add. “But I usually only drive it in the winter, to get groceries, or big stuff.”

Why am I acting as nervous as a high school sophomore going on my first date?

“It’s got four wheels and a roof, I’m happy.” She grips the side handle and lifts herself up into the seat but pauses midway.

“Oh! Yeah. This is for you.” I pluck the bag off the seat and hand it to her once she’s settled inside. I slam the door and hurry to my side.

She’s still staring at the bag once I get behind the wheel.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Open it.”

“I didn’t get you anything,” she murmurs, as she gently tugs the plaid ribbon free.

“You don’t have to give me anything.” I reach over and rest my hand on her leg. “You coming up there with me tonight is already a gift.”

The sweetest smile lights up her whole face as she pulls out the long, flat box.

Please don’t think it’s weird.

I don’t want that smile to leave her face.

She pries the lid off.

A tiny wrinkle forms between her eyebrows as she takes in the hand-stitched leather case. Her fingers skim over the smooth surface before she unsnaps the button at the top and carefully tips it sideways.

Her eyes widen, and her lips part as the knife slides into her open palm.

“Oh, wow!” she gasps, tracing her finger along the handle.

I knew she’d like it.

The abalone shell gleams in the afternoon light, the swirling blues and greens shifting like moonlight over the ocean. It’s elegant but tough, just like her.

She rests the box and case in her lap and carefully flicks the blade open. “It opens so smoothly. I hate when I break a nail trying to work the blade free.”

“Yeah, it was designed to be easy for daintier hands to use.” I trace my finger over her knuckles, wanting her to understand that wasn’t meant as a criticism.

She turns the knife slightly, watching how the light catches the blade’s dark rippling pattern. “That’s from the layering, right? That’s what gives it the design—kind of like a fingerprint.”

I exhale a slow breath. She knows just by looking at it. Could she be more perfect for me?

“Yeah. It’s handmade Damascus steel, layered, welded, then hammered.” I tap the side of the blade. “It holds its edge. Stronger than it looks.”

Her lips curve into a small smile at that last part.

“It’s beautiful.” She picks it up, balancing it carefully in her palm.

Then her gaze flicks up to mine, sharp and assessing. “Jigsaw,” she says, almost like a gentle scolding. “This must’ve been expensive.”

I shrug. “I thought it suited you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

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