Page 2 of Tempt (Peachwood Falls #1)

M egan

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

A set of extraordinary green eyes capture my gaze. They’re so intense that I stutter.

“Um, I …” I start, but the words just won’t come. What was I saying?

Squarish jaw. Dimpled chin. A day’s worth of stubble dots his cheeks. Thick brows frame those ridiculous eyes, and a slightly crooked nose parts his sharp cheekbones.

The chill that has tormented me since I broke down has vanished, and in its place is a heat that gathers in my core.

My phone in one hand, my other hand curled tightly around a hairbrush—the only weapon I could find to use in my defense at a moment’s notice. I stand in the middle of a mud puddle and try to regain my composure.

He’s too handsome to be helpful. Men this attractive are usually worthless.

“Do you want my help or not?” he asks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

I clear my throat. “Yes. Please.”

Please don’t make me regret getting out of this car .

“So what was it doing? Steaming?” he asks. “Anything else?”

“It started … boiling. Then there was a pop before it started hissing.” I shiver against the wind. “Hard to hear anything over the car's frame smashing a pothole every three feet.”

He lifts a brow. “How long have you been sitting here?”

“A while. Twenty minutes, maybe.”

“Do you have a coat?”

I shiver again. “In my bags in the trunk.”

Mentally, I kick myself for being in this situation. I should’ve gotten the earlier flight from Dallas, and I never should’ve trusted the navigation in this rental car. Ten minutes wasn’t worth a gravel road after a storm. I knew better . And now, here I am, paying the price for my foolishness.

My best friend, Calista, tried to get me a tow truck. I called her as soon as I pulled over in a semi-panic. Before she could get my location, her boss beckoned her, and I forced her to go.

Now I wish I would’ve let her call for help.

“Any chance you’re out of coolant?” he asks.

Really ?“I don’t know. If I knew that, I’d grab the sports drink out of my trunk and pour it into the radiator.”

“A sports drink?” His brows rise. “ Tell me you’re kidding .”

“What? I was once stranded on the 405 with a similar issue. The internet said it would work, and it did. But I didn’t check the gauges before I shut it off this time, so I’m not sure it was overheating, and I’m too scared to start it again to see.

” I sigh. “This is a rental, anyway. I don’t know this car’s quirks. ”

“The 405?”

I sigh and shiver again. “Yes. A highway in LA.”

“You’re from LA?”

“Can we focus, please? I’m freezing.”

Whether he scoffs or snorts, I’m not sure. But the motion causes a whiff of his peppery yet sweet cologne to roll through the air and envelop me. My core tightens as if the scent is an invitation to climb him like a tree.

It’s not.

He slips his jacket off, clearly annoyed. “Just pop your hood.”

It’s a command punctuated by a don’t fuck with me look—a look that’s so hot I’m pretty sure the look I give him in return says please fuck with me .

His jeans are dirty as if he’s been working all day. His hands are thick and strong—and ringless. I can’t help but notice that . He maintains a respectable distance as we chat, and despite his evident irritation at stopping, he didn’t just drive by .

That has to say something about his character … I hope.

Still, my risk assessment isn’t scientific, and his broad shoulders probably contaminate it.

This is why I’m not a scientist .

“How do I know you know what you’re doing?” I ask, my gaze dropping to his lips. “You could get under my hood and do bad things to me.”

Oops .

A faint smirk settles on his lips at my unfortunate choice of words. Damn you, Freud .

“I meant that you could permanently disable my car and leave me stranded,” I say.

He doesn’t buy my pathetic attempt at an excuse. “Sure.”

“Look, maybe I should just call a tow truck,” I say because that’s easier than crawling in a mud puddle and dying.

“That’s fine. But let me give you a little heads-up.”

“What about?”

“It’s almost seven o’clock on a Friday night.

Tucker, your savior tow truck driver, currently occupies the last barstool at The Wet Whistle, knocking back cold ones left and right.

He isn’t coming to get you until tomorrow afternoon at best. So if you wanna wait it out because I might do bad things to you ,” he says, deliberately arching a brow, “then I’d find a blanket. It gets cold around here at night.”

He knows he made his point. Yet a smugness in his features gives him away.

I wish I were ballsy enough to wait for Tucker or, at the very least, call this guy’s bluff. But unfortunately, I listen to too many crime podcasts. I’m scared of the dark, and all I want is to get to the hotel tonight and have a hot bath.

“Suit yourself,” he says, turning like he’s going to leave.

“ Here.” I reach into the car and pull the lever. Pop ! “There you go.”

“Are you sure you can trust me?”

I narrow my eyes. “No. But it doesn’t sound like I have another option, does it?”

He tosses me his jacket, dragging his gaze away from mine so roughly that I shiver. “Put that on.” He shoves his sleeves to his elbows, walks to the hood, and lifts it open.

A blast of air whizzes by like a handful of tiny razors.

It probably doesn’t help that my feet are soaked, and enough drizzle has landed on my head to practically saturate my hair.

I hold out as long as I can, hoping I can muscle through and not put on this guy’s coat.

But when my legs start to shake, I give in.

I take the risk.

The warmth is immediate. So is the burst of pheromones through my veins.

The headiness of his cologne rushes across my senses. It electrifies every nerve ending in my body, and I’m almost dizzy. Would it be wrong to hold the collar to my nose and sniff ?

“When’s the last time you had your fluids checked?” he asks.

“If that’s a pickup line, it sucks.”

He bends over the front of my car as I approach, his hands planted on the frame. Veins pop in his forearms as he grips the metal, playing out every blue-collar fantasy I’ve ever had.

Am I sure this isn’t a fever dream? I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.

He looks at me over his right shoulder and almost smiles. Then I realize he’s waiting on an actual response to his question.

“I honestly have no idea when those fluids were last checked,” I say, tugging his jacket tighter against me. “This is a rental car.”

“So you are from California.”

He says it with pride like he just solved a riddle.

“Actually,” I say, moving to stand beside him, “I’m not from California. You’ll have to keep working on your super sleuth abilities, buddy.”

“Are you always this much of a pain in the ass?”

“Absolutely.”

He tries to hide his grin as he walks back to his truck.

“I’m from Dallas,” I say, pausing to unstick one of my shoes from a mud hole. “I grew up there.” And live there again, sadly . “But I lived in LA for a long time.”

He yanks open the back door of his giant diesel truck and digs around on the floorboard.

“You do know what you’re doing, right?” I ask, trying to peek over his shoulder. “Maybe I should’ve asked for your experience before I— ah !”

I yelp, jumping back as he stands abruptly. Before returning to my car, he fires me a look I can’t quite read.

“Your coolant is empty,” he says, pouring a gallon of water into my radiator. “The oil is muddy. I checked the wiper fluid for the hell of it, and it’s empty too.”

“Are you serious?”

He blows out an exasperated breath. “You need to call the rental company about this thing. It’s not safe to drive too far.”

The fabric of his black hoodie stretches as he holds the jug in place. The hemline pulls up just enough for me to catch a glimpse of his skin above his jeans. It’s innocent, a quick flash of flesh, but it’s enough to make my brain tizzy.

“So how far is too far ?” I ask, wondering if I can make it to the hotel. “Can I drive it out of here without blowing it up?”

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “Are you going to accuse me of getting too personal if I ask how far you have to go?”

I lean against the car and watch him.

He’s kind—he’s helping me. But he’s taciturn all the same. It seems like he cares for my safety but also like he couldn’t care less if I drove off a cliff.

There’s an invisible wall between us. He nailed that into place as soon as I got out of the car. Still, he fills the space around him with a certain warmth that makes me wonder if he’s as disconnected as he seems.

One thing is sure—I’m not scared of him. My creep radar is as quiet as a church mouse. And I'm relatively relaxed for the first time since I got to the airport this morning.

“If I tell you how far I have to go, you’re not going to stalk me, are you?” I ask, hoping to get a grin out of him.

I don’t.

“No,” he says.

“That’s a shame.”

A streak of surprise flashes through his eyes, making me laugh.

“I’m kidding. Don’t panic,” I say half truthfully. “I’m going to Peachwood Falls. That’s close to here, right?”

“How the hell did you get out here if you’re going to Peachwood Falls?”

“Chris.”

He snaps the cap back on the jug and heads back to his truck. “Who’s Chris?”

The hint of irritation in his voice is fascinating. I could tell him who Chris is—the name I gave the navigation system after I chose the sexy Australian accent to give me directions. But admitting that feels slightly like defeat.

“Oh, Chris is a guy helping me get to Peachwood Falls,” I say. “He told me to turn on this road to save ten minutes, which was obviously bad advice.”

“Chris was setting you up for failure because this way isn’t gonna save you ten minutes. It’s probably gonna cost you fifteen—twenty if the road isn’t washed out.”

In his tone, there’s that warmth again, a thread of what might be concern. It’s curious and slightly adorable—in a moody kind of way.

I smile. “All men set me up for failure. That’s why I’m thirty years old, alone, and childless.”