Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Um, I …” I start, but the words just won’t come. What was I saying?
Squarish jaw. Dimpled chin. A day’s worth of stubble dots his cheeks. Thick brows frame those ridiculous eyes, and a slightly crooked nose parts his sharp cheekbones.
The chill that has tormented me since I broke down has vanished, and in its place is a heat that gathers in my core.
My phone in one hand, my other hand curled tightly around a hairbrush—the only weapon I could find to use in my defense at a moment’s notice. I stand in the middle of a mud puddle and try to regain my composure.
He’s too handsome to be helpful. Men this attractive are usually worthless.
“Do you want my help or not?” he asks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
I clear my throat. “Yes. Please.”
Please don’t make me regret getting out of this car.
“So what was it doing? Steaming?” he asks. “Anything else?”
“It started … boiling. Then there was a pop before it started hissing.” I shiver against the wind. “Hard to hear anything over the car's frame smashing a pothole every three feet.”
He lifts a brow. “How long have you been sitting here?”
“A while. Twenty minutes, maybe.”
“Do you have a coat?”
I shiver again. “In my bags in the trunk.”
Mentally, I kick myself for being in this situation. I should’ve gotten the earlier flight from Dallas, and I never should’ve trusted the navigation in this rental car. Ten minutes wasn’t worth a gravel road after a storm. I knew better. And now, here I am, paying the price for my foolishness.
My best friend, Calista, tried to get me a tow truck. I called her as soon as I pulled over in a semi-panic. Before she could get my location, her boss beckoned her, and I forced her to go.
Now I wish I would’ve let her call for help.
“Any chance you’re out of coolant?” he asks.
Really? “I don’t know. If I knew that, I’d grab the sports drink out of my trunk and pour it into the radiator.”
“A sports drink?” His brows rise. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
“What? I was once stranded on the 405 with a similar issue. The internet said it would work, and it did. But I didn’t check the gauges before I shut it off this time, so I’m not sure it was overheating, and I’m too scared to start it again to see.” I sigh. “This is a rental, anyway. I don’t know this car’s quirks.”
“The 405?”
I sigh and shiver again. “Yes. A highway in LA.”
“You’re from LA?”
“Can we focus, please? I’m freezing.”
Whether he scoffs or snorts, I’m not sure. But the motion causes a whiff of his peppery yet sweet cologne to roll through the air and envelop me. My core tightens as if the scent is an invitation to climb him like a tree.
It’s not.
He slips his jacket off, clearly annoyed. “Just pop your hood.”
It’s a command punctuated by a don’t fuck with me look—a look that’s so hot I’m pretty sure the look I give him in return says please fuck with me.
His jeans are dirty as if he’s been working all day. His hands are thick and strong—and ringless. I can’t help but notice that. He maintains a respectable distance as we chat, and despite his evident irritation at stopping, he didn’t just drive by.
That has to say something about his character … I hope.
Still, my risk assessment isn’t scientific, and his broad shoulders probably contaminate it.
This is why I’m not a scientist.
“How do I know you know what you’re doing?” I ask, my gaze dropping to his lips. “You could get under my hood and do bad things to me.”
Oops.
A faint smirk settles on his lips at my unfortunate choice of words. Damn you, Freud.
“I meant that you could permanently disable my car and leave me stranded,” I say.
He doesn’t buy my pathetic attempt at an excuse. “Sure.”
“Look, maybe I should just call a tow truck,” I say because that’s easier than crawling in a mud puddle and dying.
“That’s fine. But let me give you a little heads-up.”
“What about?”
“It’s almost seven o’clock on a Friday night. Tucker, your savior tow truck driver, currently occupies the last barstool at The Wet Whistle, knocking back cold ones left and right. He isn’t coming to get you until tomorrow afternoon at best. So if you wanna wait it out because I might do bad things to you,” he says, deliberately arching a brow, “then I’d find a blanket. It gets cold around here at night.”
He knows he made his point. Yet a smugness in his features gives him away.
I wish I were ballsy enough to wait for Tucker or, at the very least, call this guy’s bluff. But unfortunately, I listen to too many crime podcasts. I’m scared of the dark, and all I want is to get to the hotel tonight and have a hot bath.