Page 3 of Hitchhiker Mountain Man

"I'm fine," I say, turning back to the engine. Not a total lie. I am fine. The truck isn't.

A crack of thunder echoes through the mountains, closer now. The rain starts coming down harder.

"You don't look fine," she says, moving closer. "Your truck is smoking, and there's a storm about to hit. Do you have cell service? Mine cut out miles ago."

"No," I admit grudgingly. "Coverage is shit up here."

She glances at the darkening sky, then back at me. "My rental cabin is only about ten minutes this way," she hesitates, then adds, "You could wait out the storm there. Maybe call for help once it passes."

The offer hangs between us as another rumble of thunder sounds, closer still. I hate being in anyone's debt. Hate the idea of being stuck in some fancy rental cabin even more. But the sky is opening up now, rain is coming down in sheets, and I'm running out of options.

"You always invite strange men to your cabin?" I ask, trying to discourage her.

She smiles, and something strange happens in my chest. "Only the grumpy ones who call me 'princess.'"

So she remembers our brief exchange at the diner. Interesting.

"I'm Jordyn," she adds, extending a hand like we're at some cocktail party instead of standing in an intensifying downpour.

I hesitate, then take it, her skin soft against my calloused palm. "Slate."

I wipe my hands on a rag and secure Eleanor's hood as the rain soaks through my jacket. Pride tells me to refuse her help. The cold rain and approaching night say otherwise.

"Fine," I agree. "Just until I can make some calls."

"Great! Your chariot awaits." She gestures to her vehicle with a theatrical flourish that should be annoying but somehow isn't.

I lock up Eleanor, grabbing my bag and securing the cab even though there's nothing worth stealing except some beef jerky and a few paperbacks. Force of habit. A man's truck is his home on the road.

As I approach her shiny SUV, I'm acutely aware of the grease under my fingernails, the three-day stubble on my jaw, the fact that I probably smell like diesel and sweat. She doesn't seem to notice or care as she slides into the driver's seat, rainwater dampening her hair into darker gold.

Getting into her vehicle requires folding myself nearly in half. I’m too big even for an SUV. The leather seat is pristine and smells new. Everything gleams with that particular shine that comes from having more money than you know what to do with.

"Seatbelt," she reminds me as she starts the engine.

I grunt, pulling the belt tight across my chest. The space is too small, too confined. I'm used to sitting above the road in Eleanor's cab, not riding low to the ground like this.

"So," she says as we turn around and head back the way she came, windshield wipers working overtime against the downpour, "what are you hauling?"

I glance sideways at her, surprised by the question. Most people ask where I'm going or where I've been, not what I'm carrying.

"Lumber. Heading to a construction site in Darkmore Mountain."

She nods like this actually interests her. "You must see a lot of the country."

"That's the job."

"Is that why you do it? To see places?"

I shift in the too-small seat, uncomfortable with her questions and the way her perfume is filling the confined space. It's subtle, not overpowering like some women wear, but it's making it hard to maintain my usual mental distance. A drop of rain slides down her neck, disappearing beneath her collar. I shouldn't notice these things. Shouldn't be attracted to her at all. She's exactly the type I avoid—high-maintenance, complicated, from a world that has nothing to do with mine.

"I do it for the solitude," I say, hoping she'll take the hint.

Instead of being offended, she laughs. It's a genuine sound, not the practiced tinkle you'd expect from some city girl like her.

"Message received," she says, still smiling. "I'll stop with the third degree."

We drive in silence for a few minutes, rain drumming on the roof, the trees on either side of the road bending in the wind. Lightning flashes, briefly illuminating her profile. She's beautiful in that polished, perfect way that usually leaves me cold. So why am I noticing the curve of her cheek and the way her hands grip the steering wheel? Must be the situation. The close quarters. The unexpected rescue.

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