Page 13 of Hitchhiker Mountain Man

There's an edge to her voice, and I realize I've offended her.

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

The truck comes into view. Jordyn pulls over but keeps the engine running, turning to face me.

"You've got your life," I say finally. "I've got mine. They don't exactly overlap."

"We overlapped pretty well on that porch earlier," she counters, a flush rising to her cheeks.

Heat rises in me at the memory. "Physical attraction isn't enough to build anything on."

"Who said anything about building something?" There's hurt beneath her defensive tone. "Maybe I just wanted to kiss an attractive man without thinking too much."

She has a point. I'm the one making assumptions, creating complications that don't necessarily need to exist.

"Fair enough," I concede. "But I'm leaving as soon as I fix my truck. You're heading back to your life in a week. That's the reality."

She looks at me for a long moment, then nods. "You're right. I'm sorry if I made things weird."

"You didn't," I say, reaching for the door handle but pausing. "For what it's worth... it was a good kiss."

A smile tugs at her lips. "Just good?"

Despite myself, I feel an answering smile form. "Fishing for compliments, princess?"

"Maybe." The playfulness in her expression is a welcome return to easier territory.

I get out of the SUV, grabbing the parts from the back. To my surprise, she turns off the engine and follows me to the truck.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Watching you work," she leans against a nearby tree. "Unless that's too distracting?"

It is distracting, but not in a way I'm willing to admit. "Suit yourself."

I pop Eleanor's hood and get to work, falling into the familiar rhythm of mechanical tasks. The work centers me, brings me back to practical reality.

But I'm acutely aware of Jordyn watching me, her presence like a physical touch even from several feet away.

"How did you learn to do all this?" she asks after a while.

"My old man," I reply, loosening a clamp. "He was a mechanic before he started driving. Taught me the basics when I was a kid, said a real truck driver knows how to fix his own rig."

"Smart man."

"He had his moments." The complicated relationship with my father isn't something I usually discuss. Yet I find myself adding, "He wasn't around much. The road was more important than home."

"Is that why you became a trucker? To understand him?"

The question is too perceptive, hitting closer to home than I'm comfortable with. I focus on tightening the new hose. "Maybe at first. Stayed because it suited me."

"The solitude," she says, remembering our conversation from the storm.

"Yeah."

We fall silent as I finish the installation. The work is done in less than an hour, which means there's nothing keeping me here anymore. I should be hitting the road immediately.

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