“Jamie? Eww, no,” I scoff. “I’m more of a1923and Spencer girl. Jamie is the worst.”
“Agreed.”
Without missing a beat, he reaches behind the seat andtosses a blanket into my lap. It smells faintly of leather and cedar.
“Wrap up,” he says. “You’re gonna catch a cold.”
“Yes, sir,” I mutter with a roll of my eyes.
But when I glance over at him—reallylookat him—my words die in my throat. My heart skips a beat. Or maybe three.
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
Either I’ve officially gone into shock, orSam Stoneis the man who just pulled me from a flooded road and handed me a blanket like it’s no big deal.
He catches me staring out of the corner of his eye. “You okay over there?”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “Totally fine.”
His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Let me guess. You’re a fan?”
That makes me snort. “Of country music? No. But I do know who you are.”
He gives a low chuckle and nods slowly, then focuses on the part of my sentence that clearly struck a nerve.
“What’s wrong with country music?”
I smirk. “You mean besides the trucks, the beer, the heartbreak, and the songs about all three?”
He raises a brow. “Sounds like you’ve been listening.”
“I’m from Oklahoma,” I say quickly, like that explains everything. “Growing up, that’s all we listened to. Every station, every party, every long-ass car ride was country music, on repeat.” I shake my head. “It’s all the same. Trucks, dirt roads, daddy issues. I can only assume it still is.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, like he’s not sure if he’s offended or impressed.
“Well,” he says after a beat, “you’re not wrong. But there’s more to it than that.”
“Sure,” I say. “Like dogs and divorces.”
He glances at me, one corner of his mouth lifting. “You sound like someone with unresolved musical trauma.”
“You’re not wrong,” I mutter.
The cab falls into a beat of silence. Outside, snow flurries swirl past the headlights, the road slick and glinting beneath the tires now that we’re out of the water. When did it start snowing this hard?
I pull the blanket tighter around myself. Because I’m cold. Not because I’m flustered by a country music legend sitting two feet away who is one-hundred times hotter in person than on TV and in photos.
Definitely not that.
I glance out the back window and gasp. My Prius is now floating. Actually floating.
“Oh my god,” I moan, watching it bob like a pathetic little tin can in the floodwater. “I’m never going to be able to rent another car.”
“Hope you had insurance,” he says, calm as ever.
