“You’re a Thorne?” the quieter man asks. There’s a distinct note of astonishment threading through his carefully controlled tone, like I’ve just announced I’m descended from royalty or mythical creatures.
“Yes.” I wonder why this seems to be such remarkable news. “Born and bred, though I realize that probably doesn’t mean much since I’ve never actually lived here.”
The driver whistles low in apparent amusement, the sound cutting through the rain like punctuation. “Well, this just got a whole lot more interesting.”
“You were born here,” the man in the middle says, and it doesn’t sound like a question so much as a statement of fact that he’s confirming for his own understanding.
I blink at him through the water streaming down my face, using the back of my hand to clear my vision. “Technically, yes. My parents moved away right after I was born, though. I’ve never actually been back to Ruby Springs, assuming I ever manage to find it, that is.”
Rain drums harder against the truck’s roof and windshield, and because the universe apparently has a sense of humor abouttiming, a fresh deluge chooses that exact moment to cascade down on, you guessed it, me.
Seeing my increasingly miserable state, the driver seems to take pity on my waterlogged condition.
“Get in,” he says with decisive finality.
Before I can protest, the door opens beside me in silent invitation.
“There’s no back seat,” I point out, gesturing at the obvious space limitations while eyeing the three of them with a mixture of gratitude and slight apprehension. They’re strangers, after all, even if they do seem to know more about my family than I expected.
“We’ll make it work.” That same assured smile spreads across his features, like spatial logistics are merely minor details to be overcome through willpower and creative arrangement.
I grab the door frame with both hands and attempt to hoist myself up into the cab, which would have been moderately successful if my boots weren’t currently auditioning for the Olympic figure skating team. My foot slips on the wet running board, and for a mortifying moment I’m scrambling against the side of the truck like a very ungraceful cat.
Before I can fully embarrass myself into next week, a strong hand wraps around my waist with confident precision. Strong. Firm. Certain. Competent in a way that suggests this isn’t the first time he’s helped someone into a vehicle.
The next thing I know, I’m lifted clean off the ground and placed inside the cab as if gravity has temporarily decided to sit this one out, as if my body weight is a suggestion rather than a physical reality. It’s done so smoothly, so effortlessly, that for a moment I forget how to process what just happened.
I land squarely on the lap of the man by the passenger window, our bodies fitting together in a way that shouldn’t feel as natural as it does.
For a second, I forget how to breathe, forget how to think, forget everything except the solid warmth beneath me and the way strong arms adjust to accommodate my sudden presence without complaint.
“I could have climbed up myself,” I manage after finding my voice again, attempting to adjust my position without making the situation more awkward than it already is.
“You were slipping,” he replies evenly, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me.
His tone is calm and steady, his words intentional, like he’s stating a simple fact rather than making excuses for his intervention. He doesn’t strain beneath my weight, doesn’t shift uncomfortably or give any indication that I’m too much to handle. I mean, I know exactly how much I weigh. I’m definitely not a ‘lift up easily’ kind of woman, not someone who gets swept off her feet in romance novels. Yet he simply holds me there as though I weigh nothing at all, as if supporting my full figure is as natural as breathing.
I choose not to examine that particular thought too closely, filing it away in the mental folder marked ‘Things That Feel Too Good To Be True’.
“I’m completely soaked,” I point out instead, attempting to salvage some dignity while acutely aware of how my wet dress must feel against his clothes. “I’m probably getting water all over you.”
“I noticed,” he answers. There’s the faintest hint of warm and genuine amusement threading through his words.
From the driver’s seat, the first man chuckles with obvious entertainment. “Trust me, he doesn’t mind the situation even a little bit.”
“I gathered that,” I mutter. Heat creeps up my neck despite the cold rain that’s still trying to sneak through the window.
The truck lurches forward with a mechanical rumble, and somewhere between the steady hum of the engine, the warmth radiating from three men packed into this cab like very attractive human space heaters, and the relief of finally being out of the weather, exhaustion begins to settle over me like a heavy blanket. My muscles ache from the long walk, my feet throb in protest against my impractical boots, and my pride has been officially declared missing in action.
Rain continues to pelt the windshield in rhythmic patterns, and my eyes begin to fall closed despite my best efforts to stay alert and aware of my surroundings. The steady vibration of the truck, combined with the unexpected comfort of being held securely, is making it increasingly difficult to maintain consciousness.
Then, without any warning whatsoever, the rain stops. Like someone reached up and turned off a faucet. The change is so abrupt my eyes snap open with comical speed.
Sunlight pours through the windshield in golden streams, warm and bright and absolutely impossible given that we were just driving through what amounted to a personal monsoon. Birds chirp melodically in the distance, their songs clear and cheerful. Laughter drifts in from somewhere up ahead, the sound of people enjoying a perfectly pleasant day. I lift my head slowly, blinking against the sudden brightness, and stare through the now crystal-clear glass.
There, spread out before us like something from a postcard, is a town square.
A proper town square with colorful storefronts painted in cheerful pastels, shop windows thrown wide open to catch the afternoon breeze. There’s no sign of rain anywhere, not a puddle. No wet pavement glistening with reflected streetlights. No storm clouds lingering at the edges of the sky like bruises. Not even the earthy smell of petrichor that usually lingers after a storm.
