Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I take another bite, a half-cocked grin forming on my lips when I chew.
Damn it.
She’s got me smiling again.
10
Wren
I’m leaving to pick up Atticus when the sky turns the color of a two-day-old bruise, the heavens crack open, and a downpour of biblical proportions is unleashed above me. I grip the wheel of my Audi with white knuckles as I crawl down the washed-out gravel road that leads away from the house, windshield wipers working overtime with nothing to show for it.
The tires slide once. Twice.
The third time, they don’t catch.
I wouldn’t be out in this had Atticus not missed his day camp bus. I’m not sure how that happened, but my heart about leaped into my throat when I saw the facility was calling me. The front desk assured me he was fine, but I was in panic mode, grabbing my shoes and car keys and flying out the door. I hadn’t even thought to check the weather. All I was focused on was getting to the other side of town.
“Come on . . .” I whisper, easing off the gas and gently trying again. Nothing. Just a slow, sickening sink as the back end drifts sideways into the soft shoulder.
I hit the brake, but I’m already stuck.
Thunder rolls overhead like it’s laughing at me.
I try calling my mom.
No answer.
Will.
Voicemail.
Perfect.
Rain hammers the roof of the car, coming down harder by the second, and I sit there for a moment, unsure what to do. I’m supposed to be picking up Atticus, and now I’m marooned on a back road that looks more like a winding river.
I shove my door open and step out—and immediately regret it. Mud squelches over my ankle, filling my sneakers, and the cold rain hits me like a slap, soaking my T-shirt and jeans all the way through in seconds.
I pop the hatch and start rummaging for anything—rope, gravel, a miracle—but all I’ve got is an old reusable grocery bag and a box of juice pouches.
Just when I’m about to cry, scream, or both—I hear it.
The low, steady rumble of a truck engine.
A flash of white through the blur of rain.
He pulls up beside me, engine idling, and rolls down his window like this is the most normal thing in the world. Raindrops pelt his face, but like with everything else, it doesn’t faze him.
“You always go off-roading in a luxury import during flood season?” Hunter asks, one brow lifted.
I exhale, rain streaming off my nose. “I’m trying out for the next Fast & Furious. Country edition.”
He doesn’t smile, but something flickers at the corner of his mouth. Amusement?
“Just get in,” he tells me, rolling up his window before I can protest—not that I would.
Next thing I know, I’m opening the door and climbing up into the cab. The black leather is warm and uncracked, the cab smells like leather, dirt, diesel fuel, and something distinctly him.
He reaches behind the seat and tosses me a tan Carhartt jacket, stiff, oil-stained, and twice my size.
I shrug into it without a word. It swallows me whole and feels like a dry hug that’s oddly comforting—until my teeth begin to chatter. I hadn’t realized how cold it was with that downpour. The wet clothes don’t help.
Without saying a word, he reaches over and flicks on my seat warmer, then cranks the heat to the maximum setting.
“You’re a saint,” I mutter, pulling the collar up around my chin. I resist the urge to tell him this, too, could be a scene from a romance novel. He seems like he might be in a mood today . . . then again, that’s not much different from any other day. Still, I’m not about to give him any crap, because he’s helping me out and he doesn’t have to.
He shifts into drive, silent, determined.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“My shop. Gotta get a tow strap.”
“Oh,” I say. “You don’t just carry one around with you?”
“Usually do. Haven’t needed to use it lately,” he says, turning to me, “until now.”
The rain drums against his windshield. Outside, the trees bow under the wind, and the gravel road disappears in spots beneath a sheen of water. His truck sits high, imposing almost, giving a sense of refuge from the storm.
Safety.
“This keeps happening,” he says under his breath. “Road was supposed to be reinforced years ago. County keeps dragging their feet. Seems like they only want to spend money on football stadiums, not maintaining gravel roads.”
“How long do you think it’ll take to fix?”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
I exhale, watching the trees blur past. I check my phone again to see if my mom has responded to my text about Atticus. I need to pick him up, but I hate to ask Hunter to run me to town when he’s already doing this. I shoot her another text, hoping to catch her attention, but she’s notorious for misplacing her phone and there’s no guarantee.