Page 42 of Huck Frasier (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #5)
Jessa
I sat on the edge of a dusty workbench while Rush tinkered with my car’s corpse. The garage smelled like oil, warm metal, and that man’s cologne — unfair, really, for a stranger to smell so good while I was sweaty, dusty, and dressed like I’d lost a fight with a thrift store.
I glanced around and saw more classic cars. So he worked on classic cars. I hope he didn’t think he was going to steal Ethel.
Every so often, he’d glance over his shoulder. Not because he wanted to check on me, but because he didn’t trust me not to bolt. Fair enough.
I dug out my phone for the thousandth time. One bar signal. Perfect. I pulled up my rideshare app.
NO CARS AVAILABLE IN YOUR AREA.
I tried again. And again.
Rush didn’t even look up. “It’s a small town. No Ubers. You can stop wasting your battery.”
I glared at his broad back. “You don’t know that. Maybe a brave college student wants to make a quick fifty bucks.”
He chuckled, deep and low, which made something traitorous in my chest flutter. “Doubt it. Next bright idea?”
I hopped off the bench. “Walking.”
“Walking.”
“Yes, Rush. It’s a thing people do with feet.”
He finally turned, wiping grease off his hands with a rag, blue eyes glittering with amusement and warning. “You’re not walking ten miles down unlit roads at night. Try again.”
I stomped past him, muttering, “Watch me, Mister Bossypants.”
I made it exactly twelve steps toward the big garage door before an arm slipped around my waist and lifted me clean off my feet.
I squealed. “PUT ME DOWN, YOU BIG—!”
“Jessa.” His voice rumbled down my spine, low and calm and so firm I forgot how to squeal properly. “Do you want to get yourself killed? Or kidnapped by the actual maniacs who do exist around here?”
I went still. He felt it — the tiny stiffening I couldn’t hide. He set me on my feet but didn’t let go. His voice dropped to a murmur in my ear.
“Hey. What’s really going on, sunshine?”
I swallowed. “Nothing.”
His fingers flexed at my hip, warm and careful. “Don’t lie to me.”
I turned, chin up, pepper spray still clutched like a comfort blanket. “None of your business, Rush Turner.”
His jaw ticked. He released me, stepping back just enough for cold air to slip between us. “Fine. We’ll talk about it later. Right now, I’m driving you home.”
“I can walk—”
“Get in the truck.”
I opened my mouth to argue. He crossed his arms — all muscle and no compromise.
I huffed. “Fine. But I’m picking the radio station this time.”
RUSH
She fell asleep ten minutes later. Mid-lecture about my ‘creepy country music taste,’ her head thunked softly against the passenger window, and she just… drifted.
The tiny lines in her forehead melted away. The pepper spray rolled from her hand into her lap. I couldn’t help it — I stole glances every other mile.
Cute as hell. Stubborn as sin. And hiding something she thought she could handle alone.
Not on my watch, sunshine.
I pulled into the diner, killing the engine. She blinked awake, squinting in confusion.
“Where are we?” she mumbled, voice raspy with sleep.
“Getting food.”
She perked up like a toddler promised ice cream. I’m starving.”
I bit back a smile. “Yeah, Jessa, me too.