Loving the Secret Billionaire (Love at Last #1)(31)

The End





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Loving the Wounded Warrior





CHAPTER ONE





* * *



O’Neal

I swerved and almost ran my car off the cliff, pressed my foot to the metal too late, and wound up in a ditch, all to avoid…I squinted. Why was that man pushing an empty wheelchair up the road?

I lost my air—like a ball to the stomach—and my chest cramped where the seat belt held me back. All in the same second, shock and adrenaline spurred me to overcorrect, wrench the steering wheel hard to the right, shove my foot to the pedal and nearly crash into the rock face before the brakes finally kicked in.

This would have been bad enough without an audience. With the man there as a witness, it was mortifying.

What the hell was he even doing?

By the time I got my breath under control, I turned with a start to find him bent right beside the car, peering through my window.

“Ma’am? You okay in there?”

I managed a shaky nod.

“Need help?” he yelled to be heard through the glass.

Shaking my head no, I tried to put the window down, but the car had evidently stalled. After another stunned second, I opened the door and the man was there, appearing efficient—if road worn—as he looked me up and down.

My lips pushed out a mumbled “I’m fine,” and he stepped back.

“Can you get it to start up again?”

Why did he seem familiar? Shock, I guessed. I blinked at him for a few seconds before understanding set in.

The car. Start it. Move it out of the road.

I turned the key and nothing happened. Shit. Shit. Shit. I couldn’t afford a tow, much less repairs.

I tried again, hands shaking so hard they jangled my keys like Christmas. Nothing. Close to sobbing, I tried to twist it a third time when the man reached through the open door and laid a warm hand over mine.

“Put it in park.” How could he sound so calm when I'd just nearly killed him? Killed us both! My jittery eyes flew from the mountainside I'd missed by about two inches, to the hand I couldn’t hold still, to the man telling me things in some foreign tongue.

He pointed at the gear shift.

Park, park. Oh, right! I shoved it into Park and tried again. The car turned over with its normal hiccup, which made my eyes prick up with tears. Getting the old Forester to start was a miracle at the best of times, considering how many miles I'd put on it. And when was the last time I'd had the oil changed?

On a still-shaky breath, I turned to give the man a smile, really taking him in. Again, I had an itchy feeling, like I’d met him somewhere, or maybe seen him on a show or something.

He was big, but I didn't think overly muscular, though it was hard to tell with the thick coat he wore. My initial impression of dirt, I realized, was actually a dark, dark tan on a sun-creased face. Only the area around his eyes revealed his original fair skin color. His hair was a shaggy dark mess and his eyes, set deep in his skull, were a flat brown. The lower half of his face sported a couple days’ worth of growth.

“You always drive on the wrong side of the road?” He broke through my perusal.

“No.”

“Get killed doing that on Saint Jacob.” He paused. “Any mountain, for that matter.”

I drove constantly for work, but the fact was I hated it with a passion. Always had. I hated maintaining this old car and hated the time spent alone on the road. It was a relief when I could bike to work. That hadn’t been feasible when the paper had sent me out here to Mount St. Jacob.

“I’m a terrible driver,” I admitted. What was the point of prevarication?

Apparently the words stunned the man, who let a surprised half smile slip.

“Least you’re honest.” The look lingered and something about it made my pulse pick up. Maybe it was the way it dug those eye creases deeper, or the fresh lines that formed around his mouth, almost like dimples. Mostly, though, it was the way it took his gaze from flat and chilly to warm.

Something about that warmth overwhelmed me; a ghost of a memory flitted by.

“Have we met before?”

He looked away.

“Don’t think so.”

I glanced behind him, to the wheelchair parked on the opposite shoulder of the curved road, its only passenger a worn backpack.

“What are you doing out here with that thing?”

After a second or two of confusion, he looked over his shoulder. “Climbing Mount St. Jacob.”

“Pushing a wheelchair.” I cocked my head. “Flying an American flag.”

“Just hiking.” He straightened up and stepped back. “Drive safe now.” The words were a dismissal. With a quick lift of the hand, he took off, leaving me alone in the darkening afternoon.

Guess he doesn’t want to talk about it.

I put the car into gear and let it roll back onto the road, thankful I hadn’t crashed into the mountain itself.

Slower than normal, I drove around the first curve and then the next, shaking so hard my teeth actually clattered.