There is nothing for miles. Nothing, nothing, nothing. And the cacti don’t count.
“Shit,” I mutter, kicking my tire. If this were a comedy, I’d yelp and grab my foot as if I hurt myself. This, however, is real life, so my foot is perfectly fine.
I dive into the front seat, reaching across for my bag and fishing out my phone. My optimism crumbles when I look at it.
No Service.
This isn’t a surprise. It’s not like I had service the other ten times I looked at it. I sigh and sit in the driver’s seat, one leg dangling out of the open door, and lean my head back against the seat.
I’m two hours from Sierra Grande. In between towns, from what I can recall from road signs. I stretch my memory, trying to remember the last sign listing the miles to the next town.
It’s useless. I wasn’t paying attention. Fleetwood Mac was blaring from my phone and I was tapping my fingers on the steering wheel when my car began to sputter and jerk. I’d barely made it off the road when Pearl took what I hope is not her final breath.
I groan and push the hair back from my eyes. The strands are ratty from the windy drive and sweat has soaked through the band of my bra. On the bright side, I still have a majority of the case of water bottles my dad wedged between suitcases in my back seat.
I fight to get one out, then open it and drink half. Within five minutes, my bladder tells me what a bad idea that was. I look around, but since this is the desert, there is literally nowhere to hide and pop a squat. My luck, a person would drive by at the exact moment I drop my shorts. MaybeTenley Roberts Naked On Roadsidewould be the headline to finally knock my breakup with Tate from its top spot.
I’m seriously considering pouring the other half of the water on my head to cool down when I hear it. An engine. I leap from Pearl and rush to edge of the road, arm stuck out. Not a thumb like a hitchhiker, but more of a wave.
The truck slows. It’s white, new, with four doors and a set of double rear tires. I think there’s a name for that, but I can’t remember what it is.
It pulls off the road slowly, dirt billowing around the tires. I can’t see the driver from here, but I know it’s a man. He wears a ball cap. I walk a little closer, and he cuts the engine and gets out.
“Car trouble?” he asks, coming closer. He stops five feet from me, probably to let me know he’s not a psycho who’s going to kill me and wear my skin.Try not to get murdered. Jasper’s words float through my mind.
But if this guy is the one doing the murdering? What a way to go.
He’s arguably the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, and I think my opinion is pretty solid considering I spend a vast majority of my life around pretty people. His eyes are the color of toffee, and they twinkle. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, his body tapering down to his hips. His jeans are on the right side of tight, and his T-shirt has the letters HCC on the left side of his chest.
“I think so,” I answer, suddenly very aware of my rat’s nest hair.
He inclines his head toward Pearl. “Mind if I take a look under your hood?”
I press my lips together and shake my head. Gesturing to the Bronco, I say, “She’s all yours.”
He comes forward, hand outstretched. “Warner Hayden.”
“I’m…” I can’t say my name. He doesn’t appear to recognize me, thank God, but he might recognize my name. “Morgan Waller.”Thanks, Morg.I place my hand in his, and that’s when it happens. His warmth, his manly smell, his nearness. It swirls around until it’s a heady mist enveloping me. It’s been twenty-six days since I learned about Tate, and I hadn’t realized how badly I missed the touch of a man.
Warner releases my hand. “Nice to meet you, Morgan.” He starts for Pearl, his gaze roving over her. “1976?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer, following him. “Are you a vintage car guy?”
The palm of his hand traces her body. “Not really.” He peeks in the open driver door and whistles, the sound low and appreciative. “Fully restored,” he murmurs. He looks back at the soft top piled on the back. “With a Bimini top. And stuffed with suitcases.”
He looks back at me, curiosity raging in those strikingly warm eyes. Whatever questions he has, he keeps them to himself and resumes his walk to the front of the vehicle.
He pops the hood and I join him. Heat radiates from the engine. To me, it looks like a maze of tubes and metal. Warner leans in, gripping the edge of the truck for leverage, his T-shirt tightening around his bicep. He pokes around, while I busy myself doing everything I can not to give in to my primitive instincts. Somewhere along the way biology programmed me to smell this attractive male and want to mate.
“I can’t see anything obviously wrong. Nothing worn out or cracked.” Warner looks at me, and there is so little space between us now that I smell peppermint on his breath, as if he’d been sucking on mint candy when he saw me. I take a breath and nod. Being this close allows me to see his finer details, like the small scar on his right brow bone. My fingers twitch at my side, aching to trace it.
It’s official. Warner and I were lovers in a past life. There’s no other way to explain the raw attraction I feel.
Warner, on the other hand, is either being overly polite, or I screwed him over in our past life and all of his biological instincts are issuing cautions. He appears to be altogether unaffected by me.
He nods toward Pearl. “Can you pump the gas?”
His request confuses me. There isn’t a gas station anywhere that I can see. If there was, I’d have walked there and called for help. My eyebrows knit together, and my confusion brings a heat to my neck that isn’t from the air temperature. He watches me wrestle with his words, a slow smile curving his lips.
