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Slate

Smoke. That's never good.

I pull Eleanor, my rig, onto the gravel shoulder, her eighteen wheels crunching over loose stone as the engine makes that whining noise I've been ignoring for the last hundred miles.

Stupid. Should've gotten it checked in Edmonton, but the schedule was tight and the load pays extra for early delivery.

"Come on, old girl," I mutter, cutting the engine.

The sudden silence of the mountain road presses in, broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and the distant rumble of thunder.

Storm's coming. The dark clouds have been building over the western peaks for the last hour, and the wind's picking up, carrying the scent of rain.

I grab my jacket and step down from the cab, boots hitting dirt with a familiar thud. Even in June the air bites colder up here than it did in the valley. Good. Clear head, clear thinking. Need both now.

Opening the hood releases a plume of steam that tells me everything I need to know. Cracked radiator hose, from the look of it. Could be worse. Could be better, too, especially given the complete lack of cell service up here and the fact that the storm is about to break.

Fifteen years of hauling loads across the country, and I still end up on the side of the road now and then.

Part of the job. Usually don't mind the solitude, the problem-solving.

It's why I chose trucking—independence, quiet, wide-open spaces where no one expects small talk or asks about your feelings.

But tonight, I'm running behind, and there's a tight window for this delivery. Contracts matter. Reputation matters. Both are hard to build and easy to lose in this business.

I dig through my toolbox, assessing options. The hose needs replacing, not patching. I can rig something temporary, but I'll need parts. The nearest town's a good thirty miles ahead. Not walking distance before this storm hits.

As I'm calculating my limited options, headlights flash in the distance.

Probably another tourist heading to one of those luxury cabins that have been sprouting up like weeds in these mountains.

I turn back to Eleanor's engine. Not my type of people, those cabin renters with their spotless SUVs and designer outdoor gear that's never seen real use.

The first fat raindrops hit the hood with audible taps as the vehicle slows. Great. A good Samaritan in a brewing storm. Just what I need—some city slicker asking if I need help like I'm some helpless case who doesn't know a radiator from a toaster.

I hear the crunch of tires on gravel, the soft purr of a luxury engine idling. Don't turn around. Maybe they'll get the hint and keep moving.

"Car trouble?"

That voice. Something about it tugs at my memory, making me straighten from my hunched position over the engine. I turn, scowl already in place, and find myself looking at the woman from the diner. The princess with the perfectly styled hair and expensive clothes who tried making small talk.

She's standing beside her Range Rover, raindrops beginning to darken spots on her cashmere sweater, looking like she stepped out of a magazine spread titled "Mountain Chic" even with wisps of hair now blowing across her face in the rising wind.

Everything about her screams money and privilege, from her clothes to her impractical boots that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

"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.

"The cabin's just up ahead," she says, pointing to a side road nearly hidden by trees. "It's supposed to be rustic.'"

I find myself almost smiling at that. Almost. Girl like her probably doesn’t even know the true meaning of “rustic”.

She turns onto a narrow dirt road that's quickly becoming mud in the downpour. The SUV handles it well until we reach a particularly steep section where the tires spin, seeking traction.

"Hang on," she says, biting her lip in concentration as she navigates the increasingly treacherous path.

We make it around one more bend, and the cabin comes into view. It's bigger than I expected—probably three bedrooms at least—with a covered porch and large windows. Rustic luxury, not actual rustic. Should've known.

The SUV slides slightly as she pulls up to the cabin, coming to a stop just under the edge of the porch roof. The rain is coming down in sheets now, the wind howling through the trees.

"Home sweet temporary home," she says, cutting the engine. "Let's make a run for it."

Even with the short dash from car to porch, we're both soaked by the time we reach the door. She fumbles with the key, hands slippery with rain, and I resist the urge to take it from her and do it myself.

Finally, the door swings open, and we stumble into the dim interior. She flips a switch, and warm light fills what appears to be a great room with vaulted ceilings, expensive-looking furniture, and a stone fireplace big enough to stand in.

"Come on in," she says, pushing wet hair from her face. Her sweater clings to her curves, and water drips from her eyelashes.

I look away, irritated by my own awareness of her.

"Phone's over there," she adds, pointing to an old-fashioned landline on a side table. "I'm going to get towels and see if I can get a fire started."

As she disappears down a hallway, I stand dripping on the polished hardwood, feeling out of place in my wet, work-stained clothes. The cabin is all exposed beams and carefully curated wilderness chic—the kind of place that costs more per night than I make in a week—not rustic at all.

I should call Travis at Mitchell's Auto, see if he can send someone with the part I need once the storm passes. Then maybe someone from the local diner can give me a ride back to Eleanor. I pass through this area to Darkmore all the time, so I know most of the locals by face if not name.

The sooner I can get out of here—away from this too-perfect cabin and the too-attractive tenant—the better.

But as I move toward the phone, I catch sight of Jordyn returning with armfuls of fluffy white towels, a determined look on her face as she kneels by the fireplace and begins arranging kindling. Something about the scene—her focused expression—makes me pause.

This is going to be more complicated than I thought. And that's the most irritating thing of all.