More Than I Could (4)

Oops.

A faint smirk settles on his lips at my unfortunate choice of words. Damn you, Freud.

“I meant that you could permanently disable my car and leave me stranded,” I say.

He doesn’t buy my pathetic attempt at an excuse. “Sure.”

“Look, maybe I should just call a tow truck,” I say because that’s easier than crawling in a mud puddle and dying.

“That’s fine. But let me give you a little heads-up.”

“What about?”

“It’s almost seven o’clock on a Friday night. Tucker, your savior tow truck driver, currently occupies the last barstool at The Wet Whistle, knocking back cold ones left and right. He isn’t coming to get you until tomorrow afternoon at best. So if you wanna wait it out because I might do bad things to you,” he says, deliberately arching a brow, “then I’d find a blanket. It gets cold around here at night.”

He knows he made his point. Yet a smugness in his features gives him away.

I wish I were ballsy enough to wait for Tucker or, at the very least, call this guy’s bluff. But unfortunately, I listen to too many crime podcasts. I’m scared of the dark, and all I want is to get to the hotel tonight and have a hot bath.

“Suit yourself,” he says, turning like he’s going to leave.

“Here.” I reach into the car and pull the lever. Pop! “There you go.”

“Are you sure you can trust me?”

I narrow my eyes. “No. But it doesn’t sound like I have another option, does it?”

He tosses me his jacket, dragging his gaze away from mine so roughly that I shiver. “Put that on.” He shoves his sleeves to his elbows, walks to the hood, and lifts it open.

A blast of air whizzes by like a handful of tiny razors. It probably doesn’t help that my feet are soaked, and enough drizzle has landed on my head to practically saturate my hair. I hold out as long as I can, hoping I can muscle through and not put on this guy’s coat. But when my legs start to shake, I give in.

I take the risk.

The warmth is immediate. So is the burst of pheromones through my veins.

The headiness of his cologne rushes across my senses. It electrifies every nerve ending in my body, and I’m almost dizzy. Would it be wrong to hold the collar to my nose and sniff?

“When’s the last time you had your fluids checked?” he asks.

“If that’s a pickup line, it sucks.”

He bends over the front of my car as I approach, his hands planted on the frame. Veins pop in his forearms as he grips the metal, playing out every blue-collar fantasy I’ve ever had.

Am I sure this isn’t a fever dream? I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.

He looks at me over his right shoulder and almost smiles. Then I realize he’s waiting on an actual response to his question.

“I honestly have no idea when those fluids were last checked,” I say, tugging his jacket tighter against me. “This is a rental car.”

“So you are from California.”

He says it with pride like he just solved a riddle.

“Actually,” I say, moving to stand beside him, “I’m not from California. You’ll have to keep working on your super sleuth abilities, buddy.”

“Are you always this much of a pain in the ass?”

“Absolutely.”

He tries to hide his grin as he walks back to his truck.

“I’m from Dallas,” I say, pausing to unstick one of my shoes from a mud hole. “I grew up there.” And live there again, sadly. “But I lived in LA for a long time.”

He yanks open the back door of his giant diesel truck and digs around on the floorboard.

“You do know what you’re doing, right?” I ask, trying to peek over his shoulder. “Maybe I should’ve asked for your experience before I—ah!”

I yelp, jumping back as he stands abruptly. Before returning to my car, he fires me a look I can’t quite read.

“Your coolant is empty,” he says, pouring a gallon of water into my radiator. “The oil is muddy. I checked the wiper fluid for the hell of it, and it’s empty too.”

“Are you serious?”

He blows out an exasperated breath. “You need to call the rental company about this thing. It’s not safe to drive too far.”

The fabric of his black hoodie stretches as he holds the jug in place. The hemline pulls up just enough for me to catch a glimpse of his skin above his jeans. It’s innocent, a quick flash of flesh, but it’s enough to make my brain tizzy.

“So how far is too far?” I ask, wondering if I can make it to the hotel. “Can I drive it out of here without blowing it up?”

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “Are you going to accuse me of getting too personal if I ask how far you have to go?”

I lean against the car and watch him.

He’s kind—he’s helping me. But he’s taciturn all the same. It seems like he cares for my safety but also like he couldn’t care less if I drove off a cliff.

There’s an invisible wall between us. He nailed that into place as soon as I got out of the car. Still, he fills the space around him with a certain warmth that makes me wonder if he’s as disconnected as he seems.

One thing is sure—I’m not scared of him. My creep radar is as quiet as a church mouse. And I'm relatively relaxed for the first time since I got to the airport this morning.