I have to be careful with my speed. I don’t want to draw the attention of law enforcement—they generally don’t feel that forgiving when dealing with an ex-con.
She must’ve seen my headlights coming toward her because I see hers flashing a few times. I use a widening of the shoulder to turn the truck around and carefully back up to the black SUV.
I drop down from the cab and have to raise a hand to my eyes to block the glare of her headlights as I walk up. She seems to catch on when they suddenly turn off. By the time I get to the driver’s side door, my eyes have adjusted to the dark and I catch sight of her.
A woman—not a girl—and one I would’ve recognized anywhere, even though I only saw her for a brief moment once before.
In New York.
Chapter Five
Robin
I sit frozen as the man approaches.
Those blue eyes. The same white shirt and leather jacket.
I turn the headlights off and blink furiously, positive my mind is playing tricks. When I open them he’s right beside my window, staring in slack-jawed, but then his features even out. Should I open my door? This is too much of a coincidence.
I grab my phone from the passenger seat and dial the diner back.
“Over Easy.”
“Kim? It’s Robin. The guy you said was going to pick me up, what does he look like?”
“Gray? Tall, lean build, silver-haired, blue eyes. I think he was wearing a black leather jacket. Why?”
That’s him to a T.
“Never mind. He’s here, I’ve gotta go.”
I quickly end the call and unlock my door, opening it carefully.
“Are you Gray?”
“Gray Bennet. You work for Kim?”
“I do. I’m Robin.”
I’m about to offer my hand but he moves around me, sticking his upper body into the car.
“Keys?”
“Oh. I have them here.”
He holds up his hand and I pass them over. Then he climbs behind the wheel and tries to start the engine. It sputters a few times but doesn’t engage. He gets out again, and I have to take a step back to give him room.
“Need anything from the car?” he asks, and I take a minute to clue in.
“Just my purse. Do you know what’s wrong?”
He leans in and grabs my bag off the passenger seat, handing it to me.
“I’m guessing fuel pump,” he mumbles, walking to the back of his truck where he starts to roll out chains.
He’s not very talkative. In fact, he’s borderline rude, not even looking me in the eye when I know damn well he recognized me too.
“You were at the 9/11 Memorial, weren’t you?” I probe when he drags the chains to the front of my SUV.
“It’s safer for you in my truck. Door’s open.”
He totally ignores my question and it’s clear he wants me out of the way. Fine. Glad to know he’s really an asshole so I can stop fantasizing about him.
It still freaks me out to bump into the same man I ran into in New York, a few weeks ago, at the side of a dark road in nowhere Michigan.
I resist the urge to call him out on it, step over the chains he’s attaching somewhere under the bumper of my vehicle, and because it’s getting chilly out, climb inside the warm cab of his truck.
Minutes later, his door opens and he gets in behind the wheel. I try hard not to glance at him, keeping my eyes firmly on the road ahead as I wait for him to start driving. When significant time passes and we’re still in the same spot, I glance over to find him watching me.
“That was me. In New York,” he says, his rough voice so low it’s almost a whisper.
“I know,” I answer, matching his volume. “This is weird.”
“Sure as fuck is.” His raw chuckle is a surprise, as are the dimples popping up by the corners of his mouth, but the next moment his face irons out again. “Where to?”
“The garage?” Seems like a no-brainer to me.
“Car won’t get fixed tonight. Where’s home? I’ll drop you off.”
I can’t count the times I cautioned my daughter about sharing information like her phone number or our address with strangers, and here I am, contemplating doing just that.
“How do you know Kim?” I ask, trying for a little more assurance that he’s on the up and up.
“We were in high school together. She was a couple of years behind me.”
“You grew up here? I’ve never seen you around and I’ve been here now for almost seventeen years.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw as his eyes stare out the front window.
“I just recently moved back to town,” he says brusquely.
“And you work at Tank’s shop?”
“Olson’s. Yes.”
He turns his head and I meet his eyes, amazed again at how light they are.
“Okay,” I concede, giving him my address.
I watch his hands on the steering wheel as he pulls onto the road. You can tell a lot from a person’s hands. Gray’s are large, with a wide palm and long fingers. The remains of a hard day of manual labor not quite gone from around the blunt nail beds. Callused hands I imagine would feel rough to the touch. Slightly abrasive on skin.
My face flushes at the direction my thoughts travel and I abruptly turn my focus on the road ahead, just in time to see a couple of deer dart out in front of us. He slams on the brakes at the same time his arm shoots out, bracing me in my seat. Much like I used to do with Paige, instinctively protecting what was precious to me.
We sit like that for what feels like much longer than it is. I’m acutely aware of the pressure of his forearm against my chest and forget to breathe.
“You okay? Robin?” He pulls back his arm and I can feel him looking at me.
“I’m good,” I manage to rasp, despite feeling breathless and a little shaky. Although, I’m not sure whether from the near collision or
