The store is small, but it’s kind of cute. It has the turn-of-the-century vibe with an old-fashioned register and polished wood everywhere. I pass a bar with an old soda fountain and a menu of sundaes and other treats, a couple of patrons sitting on stools and enjoying homemade milkshakes.

Stopping at the counter in the back of the store, I quickly look around for Noah before I address the pharmacist.

“May I help you?” he says with a smile.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “I’d like to have a prescription transferred to here, if possible. Do I just give you the phone number of my pharmacy back home?”

“Oh, yes.” He pulls a pen out of his white jacket and slides a pad of paper over. “That’s easy. I’ll just call your pharmacy. We can have it refilled for you today.”

Cool.

“The number, please?”

I dictate the number, watching him write it down. “213-555-3100.”

“Your name?”

“Tiernan de Haas. Birthdate eleven—one—of oh one.”

“And what is the prescription for?” he asks.

I glance around for Noah again. “Um, it’s the only prescription I have with them.”

He raises his eyes, laughing a little. “I just need the name, so I know what to confirm with them.”

I tap my foot. “Tri-Sprintec,” I answer quickly without moving my lips.

He nods as if he’s never had an overly nosy and playful cousin who would just love to know why I’m on birth control and why-ever would I need it, locked on a mountain all winter without access to men.

I watch him make the call, enter things on the computer, and finally hang up.

He looks over at me. “Give me ten minutes,” he says before he turns around to head into the back.

I’m tempted to ask him to fill several months in advance, but I don’t know yet if I’m staying, so if I need more to get me through the winter, I’ll just come back. With the truck and without Noah next time.

Honestly, I don’t even need to be on the pill, much less on it all winter, but it’s easier to stay on the routine I’ve been on since I was fourteen than to stop and have to start again.

I move through the store, finding a few things on my list here and there. Some snacks I like, more sunscreen, the multi-vitamins I forgot, and some candles. I grab a spare set of ear buds, some pens and paper, and I find the ramen in the last aisle. It’s the cheap forty-seven-cent stuff, but I want it.

“Hey,” a female voice says behind me.

I turn, seeing a woman about my age staring at me.

“Hi,” I say back. But I retreat a step, because she’s close.

She’s in tight jeans, work boots, and has long, dark hair hanging down in loose curls. Her hands are tucked into a fitted camo sweatshirt, and her full red lips are slightly pursed.

“Nice hat,” she says.

Is it? I don’t think I even read what it said before Noah gave it to me, and I put it on. It’s not new, though.

“Thank you.”

Her red lips are tight and her eyes narrow on me. Does she know me? I haven’t met anyone yet.

I continue around her, moving down the aisle.

“Are you one of the racers’ girlfriends?” she inquires, following me as I walk.

I glance at her as I pick up a loofah and some body wash. Racers’ girlfriends?

Oh, right. There’s a Motocross scene up here. Not sure why she would think that has anything to do with me.

“No. Sorry.”

I continue down the aisle, but she keeps trailing me.

“Then where did you get that hat?”

My hat… I stop and turn my head toward her, opening my mouth to answer, but then I close it again. Have I done something wrong? Who is she?

“If you’re not with Motocross,” she asks again, “then how’d you get that swag?”

“Someone gave it to me.” I reply tightly and move up to the register, grabbing a bag of coffee beans on my way. “Is there a problem?”

“Just askin’,” she replies. “You don’t live here, do you?”

I almost snort. She sounds so hopeful.

I keep my mouth shut, though. I’m not sure if this is a small-town thing, but where I’m from we don’t dole out personal information just because someone is an uncontrollable, nosy-parker. She might think I’m rude, but in L.A., we call it “not getting robbed, raped, or killed.”

“She does live here, actually,” Noah answers her, coming up to my side. “She lives with us.”

And then he dumps an armful of crap onto the counter and puts his arm around me, grinning at the woman like he’s rubbing something in.

What’s going on?

But something catches my attention, and I drop my gaze to the pile of stuff he’s buying. I narrow my eyes as I count. One, two, three…

Eight boxes of condoms. Eight.

I shoot him a look, cocking an eyebrow. “You sure you don’t need the economy size they sell online?”

“Can I get it by tonight?” he retorts, looking down at me.

I roll my eyes, but I kind of feel like I want to smile or…laugh, because he’s such an idiot.

But I hold it back.

I look away, because I can’t respond with anything witty, and he just laughs, his demeanor cooling when he focuses his attention back on the woman.

“Step off,” he warns her.

She looks between him and me, and finally walks out as Sheryl starts to ring up our groceries. I pull a couple reusable grocery bags off the nearby rack and drop them on the counter, too.

I guess I was right. She was being rude, because Noah seemed out of patience with her on arrival.

“Cici Diggins,” he tells me, taking out the cash his father put on the table. “Gets real insecure when something prettier comes into town.”

Meaning me?

“She won’t be happy about you living with us,” Noah adds.

“Why?”

“You’ll find out.” He laughs and takes the grocery bags. “I’m going to have too much fun watching this play out.”

Watching what play out? I frown. I don’t like drama.

I let Noah carry the stuff outside as I run back to the pharmacy to pick up my prescription. I toss out the bag and slip the credit card-like pill package into my back pocket as I leave the store.

As I approach the bike, I see a huge backpack secured in front of the handlebars, and I let out a breath, relieved I wouldn’t have to try to carry this stuff and hold onto him on the ride home.

I flip my hat backward again and pick up my helmet, seeing Noah staring across the street with his helmet still in his hand. A slight smirk plays on his lips.

I follow his gaze.

Some guy—the same guy, I think, that came to the house with the group of bikers yesterday—sits at a table at a café with a bunch of others, he and Noah locked in a stare.

I thought he might be Kaleb, but he doesn’t look like he grew up milking cows and cleaning horse stalls. The guy is dressed in the kind of jeans that men who deep condition their hair wear, and he looks like his name is Blaine and his favorite type of girls are named Kassidee.

“You know him, right?” I turn back to Noah.

He nods, “Terrance Holcomb. Up and coming Motocross star.” And then he pulls me into his body, and a gasp lodges in my throat as he fastens my chin strap for me. “And he’s not looking at me, Tiernan.”