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He pulls out his key fob, and I’m shocked to see that he’s driving the boring gunmetal Toyota 4Runner parked on the end.

“Really?”

He shrugs. “Elizabeth told me she needed help at the shelter. The last time I came over in something nice, let’s just say I regretted it.”

It’s his equivalent of my pajama pants and t-shirt. Clearly he has more than one car, though, which I find somewhat entertaining.

“What?”

I shrug. “Nothing. It just wasn’t the car I expected you to drive.”

“What did you think I’d drive?” His eyebrows rise. “Please don’t say a Ferrari or something.” He follows me over and yanks the door open.

“I can’t say I’d thought about it much.” I’d die before I let him know I was googling him. “I’m kind of surprised to hear you help at the shelter.” I hop in the car.

He leans on the doorframe, his face only a foot away from mine. “I’ll probably keep surprising you for a while yet, Beatrice Cipriani.”

Before I can say anything, he closes the door and jogs around to his side. When he gets in, he acts like everything’s totally normal. “Cornell’s? Or Wallauer?”

“Cornell’s,” I say. “Wallauer’s overpriced.”

“Good to know.” He’s smiling for some reason. Maybe because the thought of economizing on a toilet handle is stupid to a man like him, and that kind of bugs me.

“You know, you’ll do better in life by controlling your spending than just earning more.”

“Really?” He lifts his eyebrows. “You think so?”

“Well, taxes just go up the more you make, for one. But also, no matter how much money you have, if you can’t live within your means, you’ll never be financially stable.”

“I suppose that’s true,” he says. “And you’re right about the government taking my money. Taxes are no joke.”

“I guess,” I say, staring down at my hands.

I expect him to ask me something, or to pry, or to talk about the upcoming board meeting. He surprises me again by simply driving. He’s just. . .quiet.

Neither Emerson nor Jake is even capable of that. When they’re with me, someone has to be talking. The silence is kind of nice. I didn’t expect to be almostcomfortablein his presence. Or at least, I’m not climbing out of my skin like I usually am when he’s at work, watching me.

When we reach the hardware store, he follows me inside, observing without interfering. I’ve just picked the handle that I think is the right color and size when I hear someone giggling.

It’s two women. One of them is older, and one is close to my age. “—understand how people can go out in pajamas. Seriously.”

“You know, Bea, I’ve never understood how people could express their opinions about others in public without being embarrassed about how rude they are.” Easton glares. “Especially when they’re clearly jealous of the person they’re talking about.”

The women look horrified, but they walk the other direction.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” I walk straight toward the checkout.

“Why not?” He’s jogging to catch up. “They were being really rude.”

“Iamwearing pajamas. I didn’t think I’d be coming shopping—I was fixing a toilet. But it wasn’t the flapper; it was the handle. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t be dressed like this in public.”

“It’s your fault that, what? That you’re wearing perfectly acceptable clothing that covers your body entirely?” He snorts. “Do you know what kind of trash some people wear? Sometimes they leave their booties or who knows what else just hanging out.”

That makes me laugh. “I suppose some people do wear questionable things.”

“I’ve never commented on their decisions, and those people can butt out about what you’re wearing. I’m theperson who’s out and about with you, and I think you look cute. Their opinion isn’t wanted.” Before I can pay, he swipes his card and drops the handle into a bag.

“Are you sayingyouropinion on what I’m wearing does matter?” I arch an eyebrow.

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