“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’tcoming to get you until tomorrow afternoon at best. So if you wanna wait it out because I mightdo 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.
“Suit yourself,” he says, turning like he’s going to leave.
“Here.”I reach into the car and pull the lever.Pop! “There you go.”
“Are you sure you can trust me?”
I narrow my eyes. “No. But it doesn’t sound like I have another option, does it?”
He tosses me his jacket, dragging his gaze away from mine so roughly that I shiver. “Put that on.” He shoves his sleeves to his elbows, walks to the hood, and lifts it open.
A blast of air whizzes by like a handful of tiny razors. It probably doesn’t help that my feet are soaked, and enough drizzle has landed on my head to practically saturate my hair. I hold out as long as I can, hoping I can muscle through and not put on this guy’s coat. But when my legs start to shake, I give in.
I take the risk.
The warmth is immediate. So is the burst of pheromones through my veins.
The headiness of his cologne rushes across my senses. It electrifies every nerve ending in my body, and I’m almost dizzy.Would it be wrong to hold the collar to my nose and sniff?
“When’s the last time you had your fluids checked?” he asks.
“If that’s a pickup line, it sucks.”
He bends over the front of my car as I approach, his hands planted on the frame. Veins pop in his forearms as he grips the metal, playing out every blue-collar fantasy I’ve ever had.
Am I sure this isn’t a fever dream? I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.
He looks at me over his right shoulder andalmostsmiles. Then I realize he’s waiting on an actual response to his question.
“I honestly have no idea when those fluids were last checked,” I say, tugging his jacket tighter against me. “This is a rental car.”
“So youarefrom California.”
He says it with pride like he just solved a riddle.
“Actually,” I say, moving to stand beside him, “I’mnotfrom California. You’ll have to keep working on your super sleuth abilities, buddy.”
“Are you always this much of a pain in the ass?”
“Absolutely.”
He tries to hide his grin as he walks back to his truck.
“I’m from Dallas,” I say, pausing to unstick one of my shoes from a mud hole. “I grew up there.”And live there again, sadly. “But I lived in LA for a long time.”
He yanks open the back door of his giant diesel truck and digs around on the floorboard.
“You do know what you’re doing, right?” I ask, trying to peek over his shoulder. “Maybe I should’ve asked for your experience before I—ah!”
I yelp, jumping back as he stands abruptly. Before returning to my car, he fires me a look I can’t quite read.
“Your coolant is empty,” he says, pouring a gallon of water into my radiator. “The oil is muddy. I checked the wiper fluid for the hell of it, and it’s empty too.”
“Are you serious?”
