Arrogant Devil(22)

To my credit, I manage to peel out onto the main road before I stall for the first time. The truck is old—it belongs beside a horse and buggy—and its lower gears are proving ornery. With every grind of the transmission, it’s like the vehicle is saying, Please just kill me.

I restart the truck and continue down the winding country road, trying to glance down at the directions from Chris while also remaining in my designated lane. I’m chugging along at 15 mph, because third gear seems to be the most cooperative. It’s slow going, but I try to enjoy the ride. I roll the window down, and the summer breeze carries the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine. Every now and then a car comes up behind me and I wave them past. They offer fun little greetings as they swerve around me: “Lady! The speed limit’s 40!” and “GET OFF THE ROAD!” I smile and wave, because I’m taking a summer cruise, and summer cruises are meant to be slow. Unfortunately, there’s a hill up ahead and I’ll need to speed up or move to a lower gear if I have any hope of actually cresting it.

I take a deep breath, let off the gas, push in the clutch, and try shifting into second gear. Wait, is second gear up or down? Before I know it, the hill has slowed me to a complete stop in the middle of the road. I plop my head down on the steering wheel before I register the feeling of backward motion.

“No, no, no!” I shout, stomping on the brake pedal.

A truck blasts its horn behind me so loudly I jump out of my skin.

“Go around!” I shout out the window and they listen, whipping past me at a million miles per hour.

After that, I’m left alone again, just me and the hill. I restart the truck yet again, make several attempts at forward progress, but the backward rolling freaks me out every time, causing me to stall out. Finally, I reach the bottom of the hill—actual rock bottom.

I’m no longer just grumbling under my breath; I’m shouting curse words at the top of my lungs (for every nearby church to hear) as I stare at the insurmountable hill. I’m smack-dab in the middle of a children’s fable, The Little Meredith That Could, except I’m pretty sure I can’t.

I catch another truck coming up the road in my rearview mirror and prep myself for another blaring horn, but it never comes. The driver pulls up behind me, flips on the hazards, and then opens the door. I’m prepared to see a farmer or another ranch hand, not a handsome golden-haired man dressed in a suit. I think he’s a figment of my overactive imagination, but I’m so desperate, I’ll take any help I can get, even in the form of a hallucination. I blink. He’s still there. His tie is a dark blue, and I focus on it in my rearview mirror as he rounds the back of the truck and comes up to the driver’s side window.

“Are you having car trouble, ma’am?”

He leans on the windowsill. I should warn him that the rust will probably rub off on his suit, but I’m too focused on ma’am. If that’s not the cutest thing in the world, I don’t know what is.

I smile gently. “Not exactly. More like driver trouble. It’s, uhh…well, it’s been a while since I’ve driven stick.”

I nod toward the hill and he finally gets it. “Keep stallin’?”

“Unfortunately.”

Here is where he could either say, Well, good luck, and head back to his truck or offer to help me out of my bind. Instead, he takes a minute to survey me. I imagine what he’s seeing: wild ponytail, oversized t-shirt, ripped jeans. If he sniffs, he’ll catch the scent of my perfume of choice lately: eau de Lemon Pledge.

“You’re not from around here.”

No question, all statement.

I quirk a brow. “How could you tell?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Question is, what are you doing driving one of Blue Stone’s trucks?”

Of course. I’m sure there’s a massive logo somewhere that I overlooked—or maybe this truck is so old, it’s legendary.

“I’m their newest employee.”

I’m all smiles, proud of my new job. Job. Jobjobjob. It stills sounds funny in my head.

His light brown eyes widen. “You’re kidding. Don’t tell me they have you working at the new vineyard.”

“No.” I didn’t even realize there was a vineyard.

“Are you at the restaurant then?”

“The ranch,” I answer simply.

“Ranch hand, huh?” he teases.

“Something like that.”

“Since when?”

“Three days ago.”

He nods. “What do you think of the guy who runs the place?”

“Jack? Is he a friend of yours?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Not exactly. He and I went to high school together. Never could quite get along.”

An enemy of my enemy? This just got interesting.

“We’ve had a rocky start,” I admit sheepishly.

A gleam of interest sparks in his light brown gaze. “I can’t imagine why. You seem sweet enough to me.”

I KNOW, RIGHT! Finally someone gets it.

“I don’t think I’m the problem…”

His handsome smile stretches wider. “No, I doubt you are.”

We are definitely flirting and he is definitely good-looking, a welcome sight in the middle of an eligible-men desert. I know it seems crazy, thinking about men like this so soon after leaving my husband, but it’s been so long since I’ve flirted and not just appeased. It feels good, like scratching a leg that’s been buried under a plaster cast for months.