Page 2 of Objection to Love

Slowly, she steered the limping car to the side of the road. Her headlights blurred with the fall of heavy rain that was irregularly beating on the roof of her car.

She put the car in park, then stared into the dark of the night for half a heartbeat before dropping her head against the wheel. If she sat there long enough, maybe her tire, which she was ninety-five percent sure was now flat, would repair itself. But, after thirty seconds, her growling stomach urged her out the door. She needed food, and it was as unlikely that a hot, fresh pizza would appear in her pristinely clean car as it was that the tire would fix itself.

And so, in a show of incredible fortitude—for which she promised to reward herself with ice cream later—she pushed out the door, wishing she'd remembered her umbrella that morning.

It was clear which tire was the problem almost the moment she stepped from the car. Even in the dark of the canyon, the sagging shape of the front left wheel was evident.

“Of all the things Dad failed to teach me, why did changing a tire have to be one?” She stared down at the offending wheel as if it would answer her. She’d grown up on a steady diet ofget good grades, be home by ten, and don’t bother attempting something if you’re not going to give it your all.But changing tires? She must have missed that class.

She pursed her lips at the wheel.

Then she kicked it.

Surprisingly, it didn’t help her feel any better. The opposite, actually. Because now her heeled boots were even wetter, and her toe hurt. She pushed dark hair back behind her ear, glaring at the wheel now.

It didn’t care.

Pulling her phone out of her back pocket, she tried to open the browser to check for the nearest towing company. But no service.

No. Freaking. Service.

Okay. Okay. She could figure this out. She was the top performing prosecutor in her office. She’d graduated head of her class. She wore heels daily, and they only partially killed her feet after ten or so hours.

She could figure out how to change a tire.

Heavy raindrops fell on her head, soaking her hair and splattering her face and body. She glanced over her shoulder, feeling the prickle of hyper awareness that came with being alone in the dark.

Maybe she could just drive home on the flat. That wouldn’t be terrible… right?

She looked down at the sad rubber circle. Something appeared to be sticking out of it, probably whatever had caused the flat. Yeah. She needed to change it.

But what was she supposed to change it with? Did her car have an extra tire somewhere in it? Yes. In the trunk.

Splashing to the back of her car, she opened the trunk. Blindly, she groped for the light switch. But before she could find it, light blazed behind her. Not that it was particularly helpful in finding anything in the trunk, with her shadow blocking half the opening.

She turned, squinting, and made out a truck coming down the road toward her.

This would be a great place to kill someone.

The thought popped back into her head, much less appreciated now that she was outside and perfectly set up to die at the hands of whoever was driving that truck.

The truck that just so happened to be slowing down.

I’m really going to die.She stumbled around the side of her car, pulling open the front seat. Her brother-in-law gave her pepper spray back when he’d been dating her sister and learned that Em lived alone. She still had it, right? Did that stuff expire? It couldn’t expire, could it? Wouldn’t it just get more potent? Hopefully.

She glanced over her shoulder, still groping aimlessly in her car’s console. The truck was stopping now. The driver’s door was opening.

Oh, geez, I’m going to die, and Peter is going to take over the Clayton case. And he’ll botch it. I’ll die, and my only legacy will be half a botched case.

Someone stepped out of the truck. Someone tall with broad shoulders.

Em finally found the object of her search and closed the car door. She should have closedherselfin the car. But instead, she clutched the pink pepper spray in her hand and moved to the trunk, leaning her hip against it, trying to look at ease. Then she pushed back to a stand when she realized how wet her car was. Not that her cute slacks were going to survive this horrific beating anyway.

“Hey. You need some help?” His voice didn’t sound particularly heinous… but that’s probably how the good murderers lulled their victims into a false sense of security.

She cleared her throat then spoke loud over the sound of pouring rain, “It seems I’ve got a flat. Unfortunately, they don’t teach us how to fix those in law school.” A rumble of thunder punctuated her words.

He finally drew close enough that the blinding light from his headlights didn’t impede her view. She registered his strong jaw and ball cap-covered head. He raised a brow at her comment. It sounded vain. She hadn’t meant to sound vain.

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