Page 1 of Faking It with My Bossy Ex

Chapter 1

Amy

“Here? Really?” I groan as my car sputters and dies right in the middle of nowhere. Snow floats down, peppering my windshield. My car’s been more and more uncooperative lately, but did it have to pick today of all days to throw a tantrum?

I slump in my seat, letting out a long, dramatic sigh that fogs up the windshield. Great, now I can’t even see the snow.

I’m wearing three layers, comprising of my clothes, a thick sweater, and finally, my winter coat. My car’s heating barely works. Why I ever thought that I’d be able to drive to Snowfall Springs without incident is beyond me.

Stepping out onto the street, I shiver. It’s colder than expected. My fingers shake as I pull my phone out and check.

No service.

Snow has covered everything in a thin layer of white. Beautiful, mesmerizing, and colder than my freezer. I am torn between the urge to jump back into the relative warmth of my car and the need to actually do something about this mess. The responsible adult in me nags that I should pick the latter.

By the time I get the hood propped up, my fingers are numb. The holiday season is my favorite, but the weather is something else. New York winters can be brutal.

“Uggh.” I give the tires a frustrated kick and instantly regret it. Hopping on one foot to relieve the ache in my toe from my efforts to vent, the sound of a car coming down the street fills the air.

A car means help or my potential kidnapping. At least if I was shoved in the trunk of someone’s car, it would be warmer than out here. It’s worth the risk. I’m about an hour from Snowfall Springs and six hours from New York City.

The red Porsche comes closer and starts to slow down. The knot in my stomach loosens. Maybe luck hasn’t completely abandoned me.

As it comes to a stop beside me, the passenger window rolls down.

Strong jawline. Broad shoulders. Long fingers gripping the leather steeling wheel and a flash of blue-green eyes that I’d recognize anywhere.

My heart skips a beat, but not in a good way. Nope, nuh-uh, absolutely not. I do not recognize this person. No siree. Not even a teensy bit. And I am certainlynotgoing to acknowledge that sexy scar near his eyebrow or his unfairly chiseled jawline.

My bad luck usually caps at harmless stuff, like spilling coffee on my favorite sweater or tripping over my own feet. This whole encountering-a-definitely-total-stranger-while-stranded-on-a-snowy-road thing? It’s not happening. I refuse to let it happen.

Mr. Definitely-Stranger turns toward me. Oh no.

That profile. That straight nose. That slight cleft in his chin.

His eyes lock into mine.

“Amy Bennet?”

His deep voice rolls over me, once my favorite sound in the world. My heart sinks. Please, not him. Anyone but him. I wish I’d worn more layers. Maybe then he wouldn’t have recognized me.

Blue-green eyes take me in from the top to the bottom, and a crooked smile lifts his perfectly sculpted lips. His short brown hair is styled just so, not a strand out of place.

Dylan Carter.

A familiar ache clutches my heart in an iron vise. Stolen kisses in high school hallways, promises under starlit skies, and the day he walked away without looking back.

If there were a list of people I’d want to encounter while stranded on a snowy road, Dylan would be at the very bottom. Right below my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Pinkerton, who I spectacularly threw up on during the last day of school. At least she had the decency to retire and move to Florida, never to be seen again.

“Yes, it’s me.” I shake my head. This is a hallucination. It’s got to be. Too much coffee and too little sleep.

He’s staring at me too intensely. The air is crackling with an electric tension, making me hyper-aware of every inch between us. His eyes slowly move away, focusing on the raised hood of the car.

“Having car trouble?” He raises his eyebrows, and a smirk appears at the corner of his mouth. “I can’t believe you’re still driving the same old car from college.”

Of course, he’s going to enjoy this way too much. I’m not helping matters in my bulky three layers of clothes, a broken down heap of metal I call my car, and a phone with no cell service.

He can’t come in here and make me feel bad for something that is uncontrollable.

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