“Shut up.”
I tried again. Pumped the gas. Turned the key. The engine dragged, fought, almost caught, then gave up with the mechanical equivalent of a death rattle. My hands tightened around the wheel.
No.
Not here. Not now.
I tried again.
Nothing.
A knock hit my window.
I jumped hard enough to bang my knee against the steering column, which was undignified and painful, my two least favorite combinations. I whipped my head toward the glass and there he was.
Mason.
Leaning down beside my door with one forearm braced against the frame, dark green eyes cutting through the half-fogged window like he’d been built specifically to ruin quiet exits. His hair was rough from sleep, boots unlaced, black Henley stretched across shoulders that had no business existing before sunrise. He looked warm. Solid. Annoying.
I rolled the window down halfway. “What?”
His gaze slid over the truck, then me, then the overnight bag, the loaded cat, and the engine that had very clearly chosen death over cooperation. His mouth twitched.
“Thought you were harmless.”
Heat climbed my neck. “I’m leaving.”
He glanced toward the horizon, where the sun had barely begun touching the desert. “Before sunrise.”
“So?”
His eyes came back to mine. “Looks like running.”
I shoved the door open and climbed out, forcing him to step back. The cold slapped harder now that I wasn’t inside the cab. My hair was loose from sleep, tangled from the blanket and thewind, falling over one shoulder in a way I could feel before I saw his gaze drop there for half a beat.
Then to my mouth.
Then away.
Fast. Too fast.
Still caught it.
Good.
“You spying on me?” I asked.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“That your excuse for being creepy?”
“That your excuse for ghosting?”
I froze.
His jaw tightened like the word had come out before he’d decided whether to use it. “Regan brought you in. Fed you. Gave you a bed.”
“I didn’t ask.”
