Do You Take This Man (28)
“RJ? Is that you?”
It wasn’t a murderer.
It was worse. Lear stood on the edge of the ditch, inching forward.
“In the flesh,” I said, clearing my car door and sludging up the embankment.
“Let me help you,” he said, stepping down enough to hold out a hand.
Pride made me want to ignore his hand, but my sheer exhaustion and the ankle-deep mud won. I let him help me the last steps.
His smirk was gone, replaced with a look of concern, and he grasped my hand and steadied me with his other arm against mine. Minus the car wreck, the mud, the grease stains—and that we hated each other—it was almost like a slow dance. “Are you sure you’re okay? You didn’t hit your head or anything?” His hand traveled up my arm and his gaze moved over my face.
The touch, the look, the words: They were all utilitarian, how I’d expect any decent person to act in this situation. What surprised me was how comfortable I was with his touch and his concern, the latter being something I never wanted, not since I’d learned concern could turn to pity and resentment fast. I took a small step to the side. “Thanks,” I said, glancing down at my mud-caked shoes. “I’m fine. My car is stuck, but I’m not hurt.”
Despite my step to the side, he was still holding my hand, his fingertips still brushing my biceps. He seemed to realize it then, too, and let his hands fall. “Did you call for help already?”
“Just about to.” I pulled my phone from my purse, thankful it wasn’t dead. One small bright spot in the night.
He nodded, glancing over my shoulder at the car. With a better view now, I saw how close the rushing water was to the edge of the embankment. “The creeks out here flood fast when it rains,” he said, returning his gaze to me, his brown eyes once again sweeping my face in this intense and sexy and annoying way. Lear motioned to the sky. “This system will go until one or two in the morning.”
“Why do you know that?”
“Because I was running an outdoor event tonight.” He motioned to his car. “I think I have a few towels and a change of clothes in my trunk. Let me check while you call.”
Of course he would know the weather. He got under my skin and on my last nerve, but I knew he was actually good at his job. I wasn’t sure why being nice was so difficult for me when I was around him. Roadside assistance answered quickly but warned me it might be hours before a tow truck could arrive, and might not be until morning. By the time I’d hung up, raindrops had hit my nose, and Lear returned with a beach towel.
“Thanks,” I said, awkwardly trying to clean myself. “It’s going to be a while, so the towel will come in handy.”
“How long is a while?”
“Hours. Maybe not until morning, but I can just call for a ride. You don’t have to stay.”
“RJ, I’ll give you a lift,” he said, glancing up as the raindrop frequency increased.
“No, it’s fine.”
“It’s raining, it’s the middle of nowhere, and you’re still refusing my help?” He cocked an eyebrow, the gesture losing and gaining something as that same brow twitched after a drop of rain hit his forehead. “Will you just let me give you a hand for once?”
He was right, of course, and I had no idea how long it would take for a ride to get out here. His warning about the creek flooding also left me worried about being so close to the water. So why was I resisting his help so ardently? It had a lot to do with the way his hair was blowing in the wind and the urge I felt to smooth it down. “I’m not stubborn,” I said, defensive. “I don’t want to put you out. Besides, I’d get your car filthy.”
He looked me up and down, which was infuriating, and also hot, which was doubly infuriating. “I have some clean gym clothes. Do you want to borrow them? I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving you out here alone.”
“I’d have to change in front of you,” I said, motioning to the space between us.
The corners of a grin returned, and my entire body heated, but he spoke again before I could respond, holding out his palms. “I won’t look. C’mon. It’s coming down harder. Can you continue to despise me from inside the car?”
“I don’t despise you,” I muttered, stepping forward to join him near the open trunk of his car, where several boxes, totes, and bags were organized with Tetris-like precision. The trunk provided a small shelter where we could both stay dry, and I was certain he must have a few umbrellas back there, but the intimacy of the space was kind of nice.
He pulled a T-shirt and basketball shorts from a gym bag and handed them to me, along with a plastic bag he’d grabbed from the side pocket of a toolbox. He nodded to my feet. “For your shoes. And you could have fooled me.” He turned, facing the empty road where the intermittent light shone off the forming puddles.
I stepped out of my heels and tossed them in the bag, wiping at my legs as best I could with the towel. I shimmied the basketball shorts up my legs, pulling the dress up to my waist at the same time. I reached over my head. Muscle memory had me expecting the high zipper of the dress I often wore for weddings, only to brush the goose-bumped skin of my upper back. Dammit. This red dress. I fumbled for a moment before clearing my throat. “Could you help me with the zipper on this? I have a hook at home, but I can’t . . .”