Chapter 179: Not Used to This

NORA’S POV

I didn’t hesitate for a single heartbeat.

"Hey... look at me," I said as I leaned across the laminate table of Booth 6. I tightened my grip on his calloused hand, and looked straight into his gray eyes.

"I wanted Knox Sheridan when you were a cocky hockey captain with a black card," I said, my voice fiercely steady. "And I want Knox Sheridan with empty pockets and a quarter tank of gas. You are coming to Oakhaven with me, Sheridan."

Knox stared at me, his chest rising and falling on a long, slow breath.

The quiet crooked smile on his face deepened, softening the sharp, exhausted lines around his eyes. He squeezed my hand back, his thumb rubbing across my knuckles with slow, deliberate pressure.

"Good," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that made my pulse jump. "Because I don’t think I could have handled staying behind."

"You’re not staying behind," I smiled.

Denise called from the kitchen pass-through, sliding a red plastic basket onto the stainless steel counter. "Order up, Bennett! Double bacon cheeseburger, extra crispy fries, and a chocolate shake for the giant in Booth Six."

I slipped out of the booth, retrieved the basket and the tall frosted glass, and set them down in front of Knox.

"Employee discount," I told him, sliding back onto the vinyl seat opposite him. "Eat. You look like you haven’t had a real meal since Monday."

Knox grabbed the burger with both hands. "I had half a protein bar and three cups of black coffee before morning film."

"Barbarian," I scolded gently.

He took a massive bite, letting out an appreciative groan that made Denise chuckle from behind the register. "Brennan kept us on the ice running neutral zone transitions for ninety minutes. My quads are screaming."

"And the SinBin?" I asked, resting my chin in my hand as I watched him devour his food. "How are the pyrotechnics coming along?"

"Bear bought a brass pressure gauge at the hardware store this morning," Knox said between bites of fries. "He and Jake were currently in the garage calibrating a high-output propane burner with a stopwatch when I left. If that house is still standing by Sunday, it’ll be a Thanksgiving miracle."

I laughed, shaking my head. "Did you tell them you’re leaving?"

"Told them I’m packing my bag tonight and leaving tomorrow morning," Knox replied. He paused, taking a long pull from the chocolate shake. "I have a couple thousand bucks in my personal checking account. I’m not completely helpless, Bennett."

"I never thought you were, Knox."

"I know," he murmured, his gaze holding mine over the edge of the glass. "That’s why I’m here."

We lingered in the booth until my shift officially ended, the warmth between us keeping the cold winter draft at the door from touching us.

Before he walked out to his truck, Knox caught my hand near the vestibule and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my temple. "Ten o’clock tomorrow outside North Hall. Wear warm socks, Bookworm."

"See you tomorrow, Captain," I whispered.

—

A fresh blanket of powdery white snow covered the quad the following morning.

The air was sharp and clean, smelling of pine needles, woodsmoke, and freezing wind.

I pushed through the glass doors of North Hall wearing my favorite dark green knit sweater, thick wool-lined leggings, and my winter boots.

In one hand, I carried my duffel bag; in the other, a covered wooden basket containing fresh pumpkin bread and a jar of apple butter Priya had reluctantly relinquished from her stash before crawling back into her "sacred couch-rot."

Knox’s black pickup truck was already idling by the curb, exhaust curling in white plumes into the crisp November morning.

The passenger door clicked open before I even reached the sidewalk.

Knox stepped down into the slush, looking breathtakingly handsome in a fitted charcoal crewneck sweater beneath his dark winter coat. His dark curls were slightly damp from a morning shower, his sharp jaw freshly shaved.

Without a word, he took the duffel from my shoulder, tossed it into the back seat, and took the wooden basket from my fingers.

Then he caught my waist and lifted me up onto the cab’s heated leather seat.

"Morning, Bennett," he murmured, his lips brushing warm against my cheek before he shut the door.

He walked around to the driver’s side, climbed in, and pulled the door shut, sealing us in the quiet, heated sanctuary of the truck.

The dashboard clock read ten-fifteen.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Knox," I smiled, reaching across the console to lace my gloved fingers with his bare ones.

Knox smiled... a real, unarmored smile, and shifted into gear, turning the truck onto Route 93 North toward the mountains.

For the first hour, the highway was peaceful. Light snow dusted the tall pines lining the median, and the tires hummed in a steady, hypnotic rhythm against the asphalt.

We talked about everything and nothing. Knox told me about Coach Brennan’s ridiculous pre-game superstition involving wintergreen chewing gum, and I told him about the time I tried to bake an eight-tier wedding cake in high school and had to catch the top four tiers with my bare hands.

He laughed, a rich, deep sound that filled the warm cab.

Yet as the highway signs for Oakhaven started appearing every few miles, Knox grew quieter. His grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly, his knuckles whitening against the leather wrap.

I tilted my head, studying his profile. "Knox? You okay?"

Knox looked over at me for a brief second before returning his gaze to the snowy road.

"Yeah," he said, clearing his throat. "Just... not used to this."

"Not used to what? A two-hour drive?"

"A holiday," Knox said quietly.

His voice was so low, so stripped of his usual cocky athletic swagger, that my chest tightened with instant tenderness.

"Garrison’s Thanksgivings were always business dinners," Knox continued, staring straight ahead through the windshield wipers. "We hosted fifty people at the Greenwich estate every year. Caterers in tuxedos. Board members. Politicians. Real estate donors Harold Orwell wanted to impress. My father would make me stand in the foyer for two hours shaking hands and reciting prep school hockey stats."

"That sounds exhausting," I murmured.

"It was fake," Knox said flatly. Then, a softer, quieter shadow passed over his features. "The only real part of Thanksgiving was...," he paused for a second before continuing. "... was when my mother was still alive."