Page 9

The morning sun glints off Eleanor's polished chrome as Slate loads his duffel bag into the cab. I stand on the cabin porch, arms wrapped around myself despite the warmth of the day, watching him prepare to leave. Watching the routine of a man who's done this hundreds of times before.

But this time is different. I can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way he keeps glancing back at the cabin. At me.

Two days. That's all it's been since I found him stranded on the side of the road, scowling at his truck in the rain. Three days that somehow feel like much longer.

"That's everything," he says, closing the passenger door and turning to face me.

I nod, not trusting my voice. What is there to say? "Have a nice life?" "Thanks for the memories?" Nothing seems adequate for what's passed between us.

"I should hit the road. Already behind schedule." He shifts his weight, keys jingling in his hand.

"Of course," I manage. "You have a schedule to keep."

He takes a step toward me, then stops, caught between coming and going. I've never seen him so uncertain.

"Jordyn—" he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair. "This isn't how I expected this trip to go."

I laugh softly, the sound slightly strained. "Me neither. I came up here looking for solitude and self-discovery."

"Found trouble instead," he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in that almost-smile that makes my heart ache.

"The best kind of trouble." I take a step down from the porch, closing some of the distance between us. "I don't regret it, Slate. Not a single moment."

His blue eyes search mine, looking for something. Sincerity, maybe. Or just memorizing my face the way I'm memorizing his.

"I need to ask you something," he says finally. "And it's probably crazy."

My pulse quickens. "I like crazy. Ask me."

He takes a deep breath, glancing at his truck and then back to me. "How long is your vacation, again?"

"Two weeks," I answer, confused by the question. "Well, a week and a half now."

He nods, seemingly coming to a decision. "Come with me."

The words hang in the air between us, unexpected and thrilling.

"What?" I'm not sure I've heard him correctly.

"Come with me," he repeats, more firmly this time. "On the road. For your vacation. See what it's like, the life I lead."

My mind races, trying to process what he's suggesting. "You want me to just... get in your truck and go?"

"Yes." Simple, direct. So like him.

"To deliver lumber?"

"That's the first stop." He takes another step closer. "After that, wherever the next haul takes us. Could be Saskatchewan, could be Texas. That's the point—freedom, open road, no itinerary."

The offer is so unexpected, so completely outside anything I would have imagined, that I can only stare at him. This isn't a casual invitation for dinner, or even a weekend away. This is stepping completely into his world, leaving mine behind.

"What about my car? My things?"

"Car can stay here. Cabin's paid up, right? Bring whatever you need. Eleanor has plenty of space."

"Eleanor," I echo with a small smile. "Your truck."

"My home," he corrects. "At least for now. Could be yours too, for a while."

The practical part of my brain is listing all the reasons this is insane. I barely know this man. I have responsibilities waiting for me back in the city. This isn't the sort of thing that people like Jordyn Montgomery do.

But there's another voice, louder and more insistent, reminding me why I came to this cabin in the first place. Freedom. Authenticity. A break from the script my life has always followed.

"This is crazy," I say, but I'm smiling.

"Completely," he agrees.

"My mother would have a stroke."

"Probably."

"I'd be living out of a suitcase, sleeping in a truck cab, showering at truck stops."

"It's not glamorous," he acknowledges. "But it's real."

That word—real—resonates through me. Isn't that exactly what I've been seeking? Something genuine, unfiltered by expectations or appearances?

"What about after?" I ask. "When my vacation is over?"

He shrugs, but there's vulnerability beneath the casual gesture. "We figure it out then. Could be this is just a short adventure, a story you tell at dinner parties back in your world. Or maybe..." He trails off, leaving the possibility unspoken.

"Maybe it's something more," I finish for him.

He nods, watching me carefully. "Only one way to find out."

I look back at the cabin—comfortable, predictable, safe.

Then at Eleanor, gleaming in the morning sun, promising adventure and uncertainty in equal measure.

Finally, at Slate, this man who crashed into my life and somehow, in just three days, made me question everything I thought I knew about what I wanted.

"Give me fifteen minutes to pack," I say, the decision made almost before I realize I've made it.

His face breaks into a full smile, transforming his features. I've seen glimpses of it before, but never this complete, this unguarded. It takes my breath away.

"Fifteen minutes," he agrees. "I'll warm up the engine."

I race back into the cabin, heart pounding with excitement and nerves. What does one pack for an impromptu trucking adventure? I grab essentials first—toiletries, comfortable clothes, sturdy shoes. Then, on impulse, I add my camera. If ever there was a time to capture unexpected beauty, this is it.

Slate is leaning against Eleanor's massive grille when I emerge with my suitcase and backpack. The engine rumbles, a deep mechanical purr that somehow sounds inviting now rather than intimidating.

"Ready?" he asks, taking my suitcase.

"Not remotely," I admit with a laugh. "But yes."

He stows my bags in the storage compartment, then turns to me with an expression that's half amusement, half concern.

"Last chance to change your mind, princess. Once we hit the highway, you're committed."

I step closer, tilting my face up to his. "Stop giving me excuses to back out. I'm coming with you, Slate. Unless you're the one having second thoughts?"

"Not a single one." He bends to kiss me, a brief but fierce connection that feels like a promise.

"Not exactly the Ritz," Slate says, climbing into the driver's seat beside me. The space feels intimate without being cramped, our shoulders nearly touching.

"It's perfect," I say honestly. "It's you."

Something in my tone makes him look at me sharply, his blue eyes searching mine again. Whatever he sees there seems to satisfy him, because he nods once and turns his attention to the controls.

"Any regrets?" Slate asks, picking up on my mood shift as he puts Eleanor into gear.

I look out the window at the cabin growing smaller as we pull away, then at the man beside me—strong profile outlined against the morning light, hands confident on the wheel, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Not a single one," I say, settling into the seat that will be mine for the miles ahead. I reach over and place my hand on Slate's thigh, a gesture of connection rather than demand. He covers it with his own, large and warm, without taking his eyes off the road.

"Ready for an adventure, princess?" he asks, the nickname now an endearment rather than a judgment.

I smile, watching the mountains give way to the open sky as Eleanor carries us forward into the unknown.

"With you? Absolutely."