Page 90 of One Wrong Move

Domestic.

Somehow we fall into that often, her and I. Friends. That’s what she wants. But there’s something about the calm, comfortable domesticity of us two that shimmers with so much more than that.

With something I haven’t had in a very long time.

Harper settles on a station that plays old rock music. The road takes a sharp turn, and I follow along, zipping past low hedges. The sun has started to set. It’s painting the sky an amazing shade of orange, and it’ll be at least another forty minutes before true darkness sets in.

I hope we make it to the highway by then.

But my hopes are quickly deflated.

“I don’t think this is the right road,” Harper says carefully. We’re driving through a small village, cute enough, but without any signs pointing us back to the main highway or London.

I slow the car to a crawl and look out for any passersby. There are none.

The hamlet is picturesque, like so much of the English countryside. Crumbling brick hedges, ivy, oak trees. White limewashed houses with black wooden framings. A tiny church at the center of the village, so small that it couldn’t have accommodated a person over the exact population of this place. Maybe it never needed to.

“We might be lost,” I admit.

Harper chuckles. “Dean would never have said that, even if we were.”

The casual comparison to Dean throws me off. I glance at Harper, but she looks perfectly calm, leaning forward to try to read any roadsigns.

“My ego isn’t that fragile,” I say cautiously.

She chuckles. “No, it’s not fragile at all. We could try to turn on a phone to check Google Maps?”

“We could. But I’m not sure it’s worth the risk, not yet. This village looks empty.”

“It’s probably dinner time. Everybody inside.”

“Or there’s nothing to do. It’s abandoned.”

“It’s not. Look, there are flower pots over there.”

That makes me chuckle. “Right. Well, we should probably go back to the main road, where we started.”

I turn around near the small town square and backtrack to the country road. The gravel makes the tires spin, just slightly, before they find their grip.

As I accelerate around a curve, there’s a sharp, violent jolt through the car. I hit the brakes immediately. Harper gives a small shriek, her hands reaching out to brace against the dashboard.

“What the fuck was that?” I ask. The car is in top condition. I hire someone just to maintain my cars. He comes every other week and checks over everything. Tops up the fluids and gas, washes and polishes exteriors, details the insides. The engine of each vehicle always runs smoothly—my maintenance guy is meticulous about oil changes—and I know for a fact my tires are in good shape.

“That didn’t sound good,” Harper breathes.

“That was a tire,” I say with a sinking suspicion. Fucking pothole.

I just know it. But we’re stopped in the middle of the road, so I carefully give it a bit of gas and pull the car to a grassy patch on the side. Right next to the houses we were keen to leave behind.

The car protests.

My soul hurts.

And it’s all confirmed as soon as I get out of my seat. The front right tire, once in mint condition, is deflated. The black rubber is torn, and along the jagged seam, the fibers are flayed.

“Harper,” I call out. My voice is calm, despite the frustration burning in my gut. I should have chosen the Land Rover after all. “Did you see an inn in this little village? Because we’re going to have to spend the night.”

There is an inn.

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