Walking around my car, I noticed the shredded remains of what once was a fully functioning front tire. I crouched down, allowing my fingers to run along the rubbery edges, noting how eerie a tire looks when it was torn apart. The frayed pieces lay on the ground in different shapes and lengths, like a giant had ripped them in a fit of fury. Remembering I no longer had a spare, since I’d already used it and never replaced it, I plopped down with a defeated huff and allowed the hot summer sun to bake my uncovered arms. A light breeze blew past, and I was thankful as my hair moved with it, allowing my back and shoulders to breathe.
In my haste to leave town, I hadn’t really thought this whole thing through. I simply wanted to get away. My entire thought process went something like this: (1) drive, (2) figure the rest out later.
So I wasn’t that great at planning.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a loud muffler coming my way. I pushed up from the ground, wiped at the back of my tan shorts, and walked back around the front of the car toward the driver’s seat. A beat-up old green Chevy truck slowed to a stop behind my BMW.
Too late, I realized that my purse was sitting on the passenger seat with my pepper spray tucked safely inside. Not the best place for my only weapon right now. Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I waited anxiously for the driver to emerge and for my survival instincts to tell me how to react.
The door creaked open and out hopped a freaking god in perfectly worn-in blue jeans and a fitted white shirt. The man was young, not much older than me, with a baseball cap pulled low, nearly covering his eyes. He had a muscular frame that wasn’t overly done, but begged to be noticed.
Forget the pepper spray, I wanted to spray this guy with love potion, or attraction potion, or come-here-and-put-your-lips-on-mine-forever potion.
Whoa.
Where did that come from?
“Afternoon, miss,” he said in a sexy Southern drawl.
I found myself instantly attracted to the sound of his voice. Could you be attracted to something as simple as that? In an industry filled with fakes—fake accents, fake boobs, fake tans, fake hair color, fake personalities, fake everything—when something as genuine as this stood in front of me, I tended to take notice. There was nothing fake about this guy.
“Uh…uh,” I stammered, which surprised me because I was never at a loss for words. “Afternoon.”
As he cocked his head to the side and stared at me, it never occurred to me until that second that he might know who I was. Then he shook his head, as if to rid himself of the notion, and glanced back at my car.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“I got a flat.”
He walked around the front of the car and stopped at the sight of the ruined tire, a frown twisting his perfect lips as he glanced back at me. “This needs to be replaced. Do you have the spare?”
I shook my head. “I don’t. I already used it and never replaced it. Stupid, I know.”
A slight grin appeared before disappearing just as quickly. “I’ll get it towed for you to my shop.”
“You have a shop?” I asked, assuming this guy couldn’t be more than a year older than me.
“It’s my dad’s. I’ll tow it there, but I won’t be able to get you the tire until tomorrow. Do you have someplace to stay or someone you can call?”
“I don’t know anyone here,” I admitted, feeling vulnerable and stupid. “Or even where I am exactly.”
“I’ll drop you off at the local bed and breakfast. It’s the only one in town. And then I’ll come back for your car.”
“Um…” I paused as nervousness surged through my veins. “How do I know you’re not a serial killer or something?”
He gave me a look that was part amusement, part irritation. “Do I look like a serial killer?”
Lord help me if this guy didn’t look like a dang model, but there had been hot murderers before. Ted Bundy had used his good looks to lure women to their deaths.
“I don’t know,” I said slowly, “but how do I know you really own a shop? Do you have a business card?”
“Because serial killers don’t carry business cards, right?” he said, mocking me as he fumbled around inside his truck. “I don’t have any cards because I don’t normally need them in this town, but here’s the paperwork for some parts I just dropped off.” He handed me the paper with the shop’s name and number, and some signatures at the bottom.
“Just please don’t murder me,” I said seriously before walking around to the passenger side of his truck.
“I’ll do my best,” he said dryly.
“Do you think my car’s safe out here?” I glanced back at my pride and joy.