Jessa

The smell of French fries filled Mariah’s car, hot and salty and exactly what I needed after a day like today.

She’d barely parked before passing me the bag.

“Eat,” she said. “You look like you went ten rounds with a bulldozer.”

“I kind of did,” I muttered, unwrapping one and biting into it.

She gave me that sharp, perceptive look — the one that said spill it.

“Daniel,” I said finally.

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “What did that ...