She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and walked to the back of the truck as Ryan pushed away from the side and followed. “You don’t think it’s a little…”

Chilly?” she said, completing his thought. “Yes.” She parked the bag near the back wheel and swiveled around to face him. “But I’d rather manage the cold than let my one-of-a-kind, silver-sequin-and-layered-tulle dress fly off onto a parkway in the middle of West Virginia.”

“Frostbite be damned?”

Her chin tilted at an angle, almost like a dare. “What’s a little frostbite between friends?”

“So that’s what we are calling ourselves—friends?” His mouth tilted on one side, and then, in one fluid movement, he scooped her into his arms.

Her eyes rounded in surprise. “Hey—”

“What?” His gaze fell to her lips, and for one impossible second, Sabrina thought he might kiss her. She foolishly hoped he’d kiss her, despite having bolted from the mistletoe situation. She stared up at him, breathing suddenly difficult, but before her imagination got the better of her, he hoisted her over the truck’s edge and deposited her into the back of the pickup.

His blue eyes met her astonished gaze. “You’re the one who wanted the drive to be nice and romantic.”

“I absolutely did not—that was Mike.” She adjusted her voice to a hush and tried not to notice how his arms flexed as he placed her bag in the corner at a predictably perfect right angle. “Mike said it would be nice and romantic. That man is so sweet, he thinks we’re an actual couple, too shy to kiss under the mistletoe, not a couple of desperate road trippers whose flights were canceled last-minute and whose cargo van refused to start.”

“Desperate road trippers—okay.” He climbed into the back of the truck and eased his body beside hers. “Guess we’ll go with that, since friends went over so well.” He gripped the edge of the flatbed and tapped on the rear windshield to let Mike know they were settled, then turned to face her. “Obviously, we’d never be an actual couple.”

“Exactly, we’d never be an actual couple,” she said, her body leaning into his as the truck rolled toward the exit of the lot. “Hey, wait a minute—why obviously?”

Why was he so darned quick to say that? Not that she ought to be asking. She had way bigger fish to fry—fish like saving Rosie, affording her motel room, and ignoring how cozying up in the back of a pickup felt a lot like actual coupledom.

“For starters, you’re a country girl who doesn’t lock her van.”

“And you’re a city guy who watches too much Dateline.” His brows arched. “You listen to too much country music.”

“A girl can’t listen to too much country music.” She snatched up the blanket and snapped it open as the pickup rumbled out of the lot.

“No, a girl can definitely listen to too much country.” The truck accelerated onto the two-lane road, and Ryan visibly tightened his grip on the side panel. “Plus, and I didn’t want to mention this fact, but you’re a Wildcats fan.”

“Everyone in Kentucky is a Wildcats fan.” Sabrina gave him a look and tucked the blanket around them. “Honestly, I think your suit may be buttoned up too tight.”

“I happen to like my shirt pressed and my collar buttoned and my life in order.”

“Life can’t be in perfect order.”

“Maybe not,” he said in a faraway voice. “But a guy can damn well try.”