Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)(107)

I was ready to crack a joke about how objectified I felt by the way she was looking at me. But then she licked her lips once, blinked, and shot off.

And it’s a shame because I wasn’t feeling objectified at all. Or maybe I like being objectified. Because if she had looked me in the eye, all bets would have been off. I could have given her something to stare at.

As I swing up into my truck, I chuckle to myself. I know the stunning blonde in the fancy Audi will cross my mind from time to time. Because there was something unusually wholesome about that interaction, like she was a teenager caught gawking and got embarrassed about it. I’d feel bad for her if I didn’t feel so bad for myself that she ran off before I could get her number.

I hit the darkened road heading out to Wishing Well Ranch. I’ve come out here enough times over the years that I know where I’m going, whether it’s dark or not. My mentor, Rhett Eaton, lives out here and with my mom and sister living down in the U.S. his family has become a little like my own over the holidays.

I’d usually head to Mom’s place for Christmas, but she and my stepdad took a cruise and my little sister went with them.

Put me on an angry bull? I’m fine.

Put me on a big boat with no land anywhere in sight? Hard pass. I saw an Oprah episode about people who go missing on those, and I’m too young and pretty to die.

Within a few minutes, there are red taillights ahead of me and I’m gaining on them quickly. Really quickly.

“Come onnnn,” I groan into the quiet cab of my truck as I tip my head back.

Yeah, it’s snowing, but the roads are hard-packed and not icy. I finally catch up to the car and realize just how slow they’re going. Thirty kilometers an hour. In a fifty. And this isn’t even a school zone.

It’s when I get close enough that I realize it’s the smoke show in the Audi. I should have guessed. The heeled boots and the long coat didn’t scream country girl.

And neither does the way she drives a back road.

The signal light flicks left. The vehicle slows and then speeds up.

The signal light flashes right, and the car swerves a little.

Maybe she’s lost? Or drunk? I sometimes zone out like she did staring at me when I’ve had a few too many.

Then I get close enough to see the light of her cell phone through the back window.

Perfect. Texting and driving. This chick is gonna kill herself. Or possibly me.

Maybe if we shared a hospital room, I could get her number after all. Might be worth it.

When she slams the brakes unexpectedly, I startle and honk.

“Seriously!” I shout, feeling my heart rate ratchet up. I don’t care how hot she is. She’s a fucking terrible driver.

She shoots forward but slows again. I back off, not wanting to be too close to someone this erratic.

But dammit, I end up thinking of my mom or my sister lost on a back road. I go back to her being lost instead of driving like an asshole on purpose. A quick glance at my phone in its holster tells me reception is officially gone on this stretch, so she can’t possibly be texting anyone.

I flash my high beams, thinking maybe if she pulls over I can help.

I immediately feel like a serial killer.

No woman in her right mind is pulling over on a dark road to talk to a strange man who flashed his high beams at her.

So, I settle in, crank my Chris Stapleton, and let my eyes wander out over the snow-covered fields. All crisp and white, reflecting the light of the moon, they make it feel not so dark anymore. Before long, I’m approaching the turnoff into Wishing Well Ranch, which means I can finally bid my terrible driving temptress farewell.

Except she signals. And turns into Wishing Well Ranch.

She’s definitely going to think I’m stalking her. And if were both heading to the same place, she’s probably someone I know in a roundabout way.

Once the lit house comes into view, her car accelerates right to the front porch. She hits the brakes and flies out of her car, slamming the door and storming in my direction before I can even get out of my truck.

When I do make it out, I hear, “Are you fucking insane?”

Okay. She’s mad. And she doesn’t sound drunk at all. She’s got her keys wedged between her fingers like claws and I instantly like this girl.

No preamble. Just comes out swinging. She’s tiny and ferocious. I feel like Peter Pan when he gets reamed by Tinkerbell.

“Easy, Tink.” I offer her a smile and lift my hands in surrender.

“Tink?” Her voice goes even louder.

I wave a hand over her casually. “Yeah, you’ve got this whole angry little Tinkerbell vibe happening. I dig it.” I let my gaze trace her body for only a moment, not wanting to border on leering. But hey, fair is fair after the way she gawked at the gas station.

“You’re fucking nuts, you know that?” She starts back in. “You drive like an asshole behind me for a solid ten minutes, and now you follow me here? To . . . to . . . check me out and compare me to a Disney pixie?” Her arms flap angrily, and her dainty little face twisted up in fury. A look like that could incinerate a man on the spot.

But not me.

“I think she’s actually a fairy. And for the record, driving twenty below the speed limit is also dangerous and could kill someone. Mostly me. From boredom,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

Her eyes widen almost comically, a sure sign that I failed to lighten the mood at all. “It’s dark and snowy! I don’t know the area. There could be wildlife! Driving slowly is safe so long as a back-forty hillbilly isn’t riding my ass in his small-dick truck, flashing his high beams at me.”