Page 13 of Begin Again

She lifts a brow. “Are you going to tell me what you had planned?”

I pull back onto the road, the truck humming along, familiar and steady. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Selene huffs, crossing her arms as she leans back into the seat. “You know, if this was an episode ofDateline, this is exactly how it would start.”

I glance at her, amused. “Oh yeah?”

She nods, dead serious. “Mysteriously sexy guy invites an unsuspecting woman out on a date and refuses to tell her where they’re going. Next thing you know, she’s missing, and his old, suspiciously well-maintained truck becomes a key piece of evidence.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Mysteriously sexy? Suspiciously well-maintained?”

“Well, yeah. Your truck screams ‘I change my oil and know how to get bloodstains out of upholstery.’”

I grin, playing along. “You think I’d be that obvious?”

“Serial killers get cocky. It’s their downfall.” She tilts her head, considering. “Then again, you run a cafe. Maybe your thing is poisoning instead.”

I let out a dramatic sigh. “Damn. You got me.”

She smirks. That sharp, knowing smirk makes me feel like she’s uncovered a truth I haven’t even realized yet. “Knew it.”

I shake my head, turning the volume up on the stereo. “Guess I better prove I’m not a murderer before we get to my place.”

Selene blinks. “Your place?”

I bite back a smile, keeping my eyes on the road. “Relax. You’re safe. For now.”

She eyes me like she’s weighing whether or not she needs an escape plan. Then she just shrugs, like she’s decided if I am a murderer, at least it’ll be interesting. She shifts in her seat as music fills the cab. The playlist kicks off with a bright, bouncy track—perfect for cooking and moving around the kitchen. I catch her nodding along, fingers tapping against her thigh.

“So,” she says, glancing over. “What’s with the mystery?”

I shrug, pulling into my driveway. “Thought it’d be more fun this way.”

Selene raises a brow as I throw the truck into park. “Depends on your definition of fun.”

I chuckle, grabbing the bouquet from between us before hopping out. By the time she joins me, she’s already taking in her surroundings—the house, the wraparound porch, the warm glow of light spilling from the windows.

Her expression shifts, just slightly. “Your place, huh?”

“Still convinced I’m a serial killer?” I tease, unlocking the door.

She hums, stepping inside ahead of me. “Not ruling it out yet.”

The second I shut the door behind us, my phone connects to the Bluetooth speakers in the kitchen, and the music from the truck picks up right where it left off—a smooth transition, like the house is just as ready for tonight as I am.

Selene glances toward the speakers, amused. “Didn’t take you for the ‘walk into the room with a soundtrack’ type.”

I set the bouquet down on the counter, flashing her a grin. “It makes life more interesting.”

She smirks, but I catch the way her eyes linger on the space around her. It’s not a huge house, but it’s comfortable—lived-in. Warm wood tones, open shelves lined with coffee mugs and cookbooks, a well-worn couch in the living room, and a few framed photos that have been in the same spots for years.

She looks at it like she’s searching for a tell—a crack in the perfect, steady image.

“Alright, Hot Shot,” she says, turning back to me. “What’s the plan?”

I nod toward the kitchen. “We cook.”

Selene blinks. “Wait, what?”