She looked up from the e-reader she’d had in her hands the whole day. “Somehow I doubt I’ll be partying in New Orleans anytime soon.”

“We could drive in for the day,” he offered. “I’ll have to go into the city often to pick things up.”

She turned away from him and seemed to realize there was a world outside the cab. She hadn’t looked up as they’d moved from the flat prairie land of North Texas into the Piney Woods that connected the state to Louisiana. She’d ignored the world outside as they’d driven across the long stretch of highway that bridged the Atchafalaya Basin, and he was fairly certain she’d napped as they’d passed around New Orleans.

But she looked up now. They were crossing the long bridge that connected Papillon to the mainland. The one-lane highway was one of two ways to get into his hometown. The other involved an airboat and a certain tolerance for the swamp.

“That’s the bayou the town’s named after.” He kept his words quiet, academic. He didn’t want to scare her back into her book.

She turned and stared out the window. The sun was starting to set, the sky lit with pinks and oranges and yellows. Massive cypress trees leaned over as though dipping branches into the slow-flowing waters, Spanish moss dripping from the limbs like a gothic shawl. This time of year the place was green and lush, the water seemingly blanketed in bright green lily pads.

He’d grown up here, but even he knew the bayou was a different world, alien and beautiful. Like nothing on the planet.

God, he’d crossed the globe and nothing, nothing in the world had ever been as beautiful as this stretch of road taking him home.

Nothing except her.

She gasped and sat up a bit straighter, as though trying to see. “That’s an alligator. It snapped at something. That was a real live alligator.”

There she was. “Don’t get too impressed. You’ll get used to them. They’re kind of part of life around here. We name them.”

She turned to him, her jaw going stubborn again. “I won’t be here long enough to name one.” She pressed her lips together as though holding something in. “Except that one. He’s Chompy.”

Yeah, there was no way she’d be able to hole up in her room. That’s what he had to count on. Her natural, vibrant curiosity.

God, he’d forgotten how beautiful it was here. He’d forgotten how it felt to be home. It was an actual ache in his chest. He was home.

“How long has it been?” The question came out of her mouth as though she didn’t want to ask but couldn’t stop herself.