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I look down at the plate of beautiful food in front of me. Look up at the beautiful man across from me.

Best night of my life? Possibly.

Best date I’ve been on? Absolutely.

“You know who you remind me of tonight?” I place the cloth napkin—a cloth napkin!—on my lap. “Your mom.”

I didn’t intend to bring up Betsy Rivers. It’s clearly a touchy subject for Wyatt. But I feel like he’ll appreciate the compliment.

Maybe—just maybe—he’ll open up a little more.

Wyatt glances at me as he picks up his fork. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. She was always in the kitchen making something for y’all. I remember her putting on her apron and turning on that little speaker she had?—”

“The pink one, shaped like a gigantic pill.” Wyatt laughs and shovels a forkful of pot roast into his mouth. “Good memory.”

“Betsy loved her some Shania.” I try my pot roast too. “Wow, Wyatt, that’s delicious.”

“You think so?”

“Hell yes. Thank you.”

Wyatt grins. “But yeah, how many dance parties did we have listening to that album? The one with ‘Man, I Feel Like a Woman!’ on it?”

My heart swells.He’s doing it.Wyatt really is opening up.

That’s a big,bigdeal.

“Too many to count,” I say with a smile.

He blinks, looking away as he eats his salad. “Mom was the best.”

“You take after her. Cash is one hundred percent your dad?—”

“Kinda scary when you think about how alike they are.”

“No kidding. But you’re Betsy through and through.” I scoop up some mashed potatoes on my fork and hold it up. “Case in point: these are her mashed potatoes, aren’t they? Made with parsnips?”

He’s blinking again, not meeting my eyes. “Only way to make ’em.”

I slide the fork into my mouth. The potatoes aredelicious, just the slightest bit sweet from the parsnips. “You’re so right. That is so damn right, Wyatt, it’s not even funny.”

“They’re good?”

“Best I’ve ever had. Just as good as your mom’s.” I smile. “She’d be so proud of you, Wy.”

I watch his Adam’s apple bob on a swallow. My eyes fill when I see his expression flicker. Shit, I took it too far, didn’t I?

He clears his throat. “Thank you for saying that.”

A beat of silence. I don’t rush to fill it. The moment suddenly feels tender in every sense of the word. It’s tender, as in it’s sweet, but it also feels like I’m pressing on a sore spot.

Part of me wants to backtrack, to say,Hey, it’s all right if you don’t want to talk about this.But he already knows that. Wyatt can change the subject at any time.

I wait for him to do exactly that. Instead, he takes the stem of his wineglass in his hand and rolls it between his fingers.

He sniffles. “I miss her, you know?”