I mean...he might be. Or not. I have a feeling he isn’t—not sure why.
But I can’tseewhether he is or isn’t. He just isn’t wearingonlyunderwear. He’s wearing pants. Which is totally normal, as he’s out here, like me, on a highway. In the daytime.
And what the actualfuckis wrong with me?
My brain spins with dandelion fuzz, and the rest of me is too hot and tight to make functioning easy.
Now he’s squinting at me, his expression a mask of confusion. “What are you mumbling about?”
“Not a damn thing,” I manage. “But this sexy piece of machinery has left me high and dry, and if you ask me what seems to be the problem, I promise to find the first sharp piece of metal I can and?—”
He laughs, a deep, rich sound like coffee, and I stop talking.
I smile back despite myself, cross my arms over my chest, and lean a hip against the hood. “I’m Reva. Uh…McEntire. You know anything about cars?”
He gives a quick nod, absorbing the name and the question. “Depends on what the problem is. Mind if I take a look?”
“Not at all, as long as you don’t mansplain anything to me.”
He laughs again and walks around the hood, making me turn around so I can continue to take him in. “I wouldn’t dare. I’m Shiloh.”
He’s tall and solidly built, with inked arms descending from the sleeves of a plain black tee shirt. I’d like to study his tattoos at length, but a quick glance assures me there’s no rosary, and I direct my attention to other things, trying to soak him in all at once.
His eyes, hidden at first behind reflective sunglasses, appear hazel once he takes the shades off behind the shield of the hood. His hair is thick with waves, deep brown similar to my own but gilded at the tips, and his skin a rich, sun-kissed bronze.
Best, though, is his scent. It’s nothing more than soap and man, but something about it tugs at me. I lean toward him, trying to catch more than just the barest trace of that smell.
I want more.
He looks up from where he stands beneath the hood, our gazes colliding and fastening to one another for a long moment that steals the breath in my lungs. Behind me, a car whizzes by. Neither of us blink.
“Ah. I hate to have to tell you this, Yank,” Shiloh says.
“Yeah?” I sway closer.
“Your truck here needs fixin’.”
“Lucille.”
His gaze flickers to mine. “Hmm?”
“Lucille. That’s her name.”
A slow smile crawls over his face. “She picked a fine time to leave you, didn’t she?”
I blink, then laugh, his humor sliding over me like warm silk. “She did.” It fades just as fast, and I tip my head back to the sky and growl. “I guess I need a tow.”
“I reckon you do.” He eyes me, then jerks his head toward his truck, parked behind Lucille. “C’mon. I know a guy. I’ll call him and drive you into the nearest town…well, it’ll pass as a town, anyway. They have a spot to eat, a place to stay. I’ll keep you company while you wait.”
I tilt my head to the side and look up at him through my lashes. “Oh, yeah? You’re gonna keep me company, huh?”
And hopefully, probably, not murder me.
Immediately afterward I want to kick my own self in the ass, metaphorically speaking. I’m not the kind of girl who flirts, and not with ease.
I’m the kind who kicks the dude in the ass for attempting to flirt with me.
Something about Shiloh, though, makes me want to simper and bat my eyelashes.
