He glanced over and smiled a little. “What for.”

“You believed me. Instead of her.”

“Of course I did.”

His answer was just as steady as his hand on the wheel, and for some reason that made her tear up.

“Why are you crying?” He pushed a hand into his jacket and took out a pristine white handkerchief. “Here. Oh, love, don’t cry.”

“I’ll be fine. And better to get the leaks now instead of later.”

After wiping her cheeks with her fingertips, she took the super-soft, super-thin linen square and spread it flat on her lap. She had some mascara on still from how she’d made herself up for church, and she wasn’t about to mar the delicate cloth by actually using it—and yet she liked having the thing. Liked running her finger back and forth over the raised stitching of his monogram, VSdP.

“Why are you crying?” he repeated gently.

“Because you’re amazing.” She touched the V that was done in block font. “And because when you say things like you love me I believe you, and it terrifies me.” She touched the S. “And because I’ve hated myself for so much, but when you look at me, I don’t feel like I’m so dirty.” Finally, she touched the dP for his last name. “Mostly, though, it’s because you make me look forward to the future, and I haven’t done that in forever.”

“You can trust me.” His hand found hers again. “And as for your past, it’s not what you’ve done—it’s who you are. To me, that’s all that matters.”

She wiped more tears away as she stared across the seats at him, and though his handsome face went blurry, she was getting to know his features by heart, so it didn’t matter.

“You really should use my handkerchief.”

“I don’t want to mess it up.”

“I have plenty of others.”

She looked down at his initials again. “What does the S stand for?”

“Sean. My middle name is Sean. Mother was Irish.”

“Really?” Marie-Terese’s eyes watered even more. “That’s my son’s real name.”

“You two assholes stay here.”

Eddie slammed the driver’s-side door so hard, the whole truck rocked, and as the guy stalked over to the Hannaford’s entrance, people went out of their way to get out of his.

Jim’s balls still hurt. Bad. Kinda felt like he’d rolled ’em in cut glass—all tingling and painful at the same time.

On the seat next to him, Adrian was rubbing his shoulder, his expression one of disgust. “Bastard telling us to stay here. What the hell—like he’s grounding us? Fuck him.”