1
Everly
I stare at the blinking hazard lights of my poor, defeated car, rain drumming furiously on the windshield. This isn’t how my summer of self-discovery and relaxation was supposed to begin. I envisioned yoga mats, lakeside tranquility, and perfect sunrise meditation—not being marooned on the side of a dirt road in the middle of nowhere with no phone signal.
Great planning, Everly. Real top-notch.
I jab the useless call button on my phone once more, hoping against hope that a signal bar might magically appear. Nothing. Just my luck.
With a sigh, I slip my sandals onto my feet, grip the door handle tightly, and push myself out into the downpour. Immediately, I regret it. Rain slices through my flimsy sundress, soaking me to the bone within seconds. But what other choice do I have? Sitting in a dead car isn’t exactly going to summon help.
I pop the trunk, squinting against the stinging rain. There’s my suitcase, packed optimistically with nothing but sundresses,bikinis, and a few indulgent romance novels—because clearly, emergency roadside assistance isn’t something I’d ever thought to prepare for.
Lightning splits the sky, illuminating the dense woods that surround me. It’s beautiful, in a raw, terrifying sort of way. My heart pounds, and I fight back panic. There’s a part of me—the overly dramatic city-girl part—that wonders if maybe I’ve driven straight into a horror movie.
Just as I’m debating whether to attempt changing a tire with absolutely zero skills, a rumble cuts through the storm, louder than thunder. It’s the growl of an engine.
Relief washes over me when I spot a muddy pickup barreling down the road toward me. I wave frantically, praying whoever’s inside isn’t a serial killer. The truck rolls to a halt, window sliding down to reveal the most impressively grumpy face I’ve ever seen.
“You lost?” His voice is a deep rumble, as rough as the gravel beneath his tires.
I swallow hard, shivering in my soaked sundress, rain streaming from my hair. “Um, hi! Not exactly lost, more like stranded. Flat tire and no spare. Or phone signal. Or skill at changing tires, apparently.”
He sighs, the sound weary and mildly irritated. His gaze sweeps over me, lingering briefly on my dripping hair and the puddle rapidly forming at my feet. He mutters something I’m pretty sure is a swear under his breath before opening the door and climbing out.
And holy lumberjack fantasy.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and rugged in all the ways men on magazine covers try—and usually fail—to emulate. His jeans cling to long legs and sturdy thighs, his faded flannel shirt sticking to a broad chest. His hair is dark, wet strands falling over storm-gray eyes that somehow look even stormier than the sky.
He grunts, walking past me to examine the tire. I trail after him, ignoring my squelching shoes.
He crouches, inspecting my shredded tire, then rises and turns toward me. “No spare at all?”
I shake my head, shivering harder. “Nope. I kind of assumed roadside assistance would handle emergencies like this. Clearly, my city upbringing has betrayed me.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks, his annoyance radiating like its own small storm. “Yeah, looks that way.”
We stand in awkward silence, rain falling around us like tiny, relentless hammers. I shift on my feet, wrapping my arms around myself to keep warm. His gaze flickers over me again, this time less irritated and more resigned.
“Nearest town’s half an hour away, roads’ll be flooded by now. Come on,” he finally growls, turning toward his truck.
I hesitate, glancing uncertainly at his broad back. “Come on?”
“You planning on staying out here to drown?” he asks over his shoulder, voice dripping with impatience. “Get in.”
“Okay. Great,” I murmur under my breath. “Definitely not how horror movies start.”
His sharp glance catches mine, and I offer him my most disarming smile, teeth chattering slightly. He merely shakes his head, opens the passenger side door, and gestures for me to climb in.
The inside of his truck is warm, smelling faintly of pine and leather and something else, woodsy and undeniably masculine. It’s oddly comforting, given the fact I’m currently hitching a ride with a grumpy stranger in a thunderstorm.
He climbs into the driver’s seat, running a hand through his soaked hair, and shoots me another sideways look.
“Liam,” he mutters by way of introduction.
I smile again, hoping to chip away at some of that brooding intensity. “Everly. And thank you, Liam. Seriously. You’re kind of my hero right now.”
He groans softly, shaking his head and shifting the truck into gear. “Don’t mention it.”