Page 42 of Hero Mine

The scent hit him first—motor oil and metal, yes, but also something unexpected. Vanilla? A hint of cinnamon? Bear stepped inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior.

And then he saw it.

Bear stopped cold, his boot heels scraping against concrete as he stared at the vehicle parked in the center of the space.

This definitely wasn’t the beat-up Tex-Mex truck he’d helped Joy tow in last spring, with its peeling red-and-black decals and rusty corners. It wasn’t even the truck he’d seen a couple months ago when they’d got it into working shape. This was…something else entirely.

Sleek. Elegant. Beautiful.

The entire truck had been transformed from bumper to bumper. The harsh primary colors were gone, replaced by a soothing, creamy purple that reminded him of twilight. The paint Lincoln described as seeing on her arms made sense now. The whole truck was now soft colors.

Delicate script in an eye-catching pink curled across the side—Velvet Mornings—accompanied by intricate hand-painted designs. Coffee cups trailing steam. Pastries arranged on tiered stands. Wild flowers twining along the edges.

Bear took a slow step forward, his callused fingers reaching out to trace the painted flowers along the panel. They were perfect—each petal distinct, the colors blending seamlessly, creating depth and texture that felt almost three-dimensional.

“Velvet Mornings,” he murmured, tasting the words. They didn’t just sound different from the Tex-Mex theme she’d originally planned. They felt different. They felt…unexpected.

Bear had known Joy Davis her entire life—had watched her take apart electronics to see how they worked, had pulled her out of trouble when her dares went too far, had seen her run up and down the town collecting lightning bugs.

The woman who owned this elegant, sophisticated food truck and the Joy he’d grown up with couldn’t possibly be the same person.

Behind him, boots scuffed against concrete. Bear turned to find Joy standing there, a paintbrush in one hand, a rag in the other. She wore faded jeans splattered with paint, her brown hair tied back in a messy ponytail. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her chin tilted upward in that familiar defiant angle he knew so well.

But there was something else in her expression—something guarded, something vulnerable.

“You did all this?” His voice came out lower than he intended, rough with surprise.

“Yeah.” Joy’s voice was carefully neutral, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the paintbrush. “So?”

She looked like she was bracing herself for something bad. For mockery, for dismissal, for him to tell her the truck was the leastJoything anyone had ever seen.

The realization hit him square in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs.

Hadn’t he just been thinking exactly that? That this elegant creation didn’t match the Joy Davis he knew?

“You did it yourself?” he asked, scrambling to buy himself time to process.

Joy’s fingers tightened on the paintbrush until he was afraid it would snap. “Mostly. I wanted to make sure I could articulate my vision.” She gestured toward the hand-painted flowers. “I did all the painting. Took a while to get the colors exactly right.”

Bear stared at the intricate artwork. Joy had never been the type to sit still for more than five minutes at a stretch, let alone focus on something requiring such delicate precision. But the evidence was right in front of him—she’d created this. And it was extraordinary.

“This is impressive,” he said finally. “And this is what you want? You’re sure?”

Something flickered in her green eyes—hurt, maybe. “Why do you say that?”

Bear scrubbed a hand down his face. “Maybe it just doesn’t feel like you, I guess.”

“What do I feel like?” Her question came quietly, but he heard the edge beneath it.

He hesitated, very aware of the minefield he was walking into. “You know… You’ve always been more?—”

“Let me guess,” she interrupted, voice tight. “You think of me as racing bikes and playing football. Climbing trees and catching fireflies.”

Fuck. He’d just had that very thought. He shrugged helplessly. “Well, yeah.”

Joy shook her head and turned away, her shoulders stiff. “You don’t have to say it out loud for me to know what you’re thinking.”

That pulled him up short. Bear watched her move to the truck, running her fingers along the painted script, and suddenly, he saw it—the pride in her touch, the care in her movements. The truck wasn’t just a business venture to her. It was a declaration.

---