close the hood of her car.
I was about to tell him I had the situation handled when he crouched down beside me. His closeness was unsettling. Not because I was afraid, but because I liked it. It was almost like a cloud had drifted and revealed the sun. The heat coming off his body was intoxicating. I hadn’t even realized how cold I was until he showed me.
“Did you hurt yourself?” he asked.
“No, I’m just tangled up.”
He shook his head and pulled out what looked like a Swiss Army knife from his jeans. The moonlight glinted off the blade when he flicked it open.
My hackles raised as my heart started to pound when he reached for me. I jerked away and he grunted. “I’m going to cut you lose. Don’t move. You’ll just get tangled more.”
His fingers worked their way between my skin and the taut piece of chord wrapped around my ankle. I shivered and he paused . I felt his stare from beneath the brim of his hat, but I didn’t dare look up. I couldn’t. If I did, he might see I wasn’t shivering because I was cold.
His skin was smooth. Smooth as satin. There wasn’t a callous or rough spot on his hand. Even though he had to squeeze his touch beneath the belt, he was still gentle, like he honestly cared if he hurt me.
“Hold still,” he said again, this time his voice a mere whisper. With a deft hand , he slid the blade under the chord and within seconds sliced through the bind. Once it was cut, he worked quickly to unwind the rest from my leg.
After he tossed it aside , his hands skimmed down my calf and my eyes closed. When was the last time someone touched me? Like really touched me?
I didn’t know the answer.
And that realization made me incredibly sad. Emotion welled up in me and I fought against it. This wasn’t the time to cry. This wasn’t the time to decide I was some withering violet, because I most certainly was not.
“ Are you cut?” he asked, smoothing his hands over the area that had been confined.
I cleared my throat. “I don’t think so.”
“Is it around you anywhere else?”
Was it wrong I wished it was? “No.”
He removed his hands quickly, and I felt like a complete idiot for wishing they’d lingered. “Good,” he said, standing. On his feet, he towered over me, making me feel vulnerable and weak. I didn’t like to feel that way.
I started to stand and he reached for me, slipping his palm beneath my arm , and lifted, helping me to my feet. Even after I was standing, he kept hold of me, guiding my steps as I freed both my feet from the rest of the shredded belt.
“This is your fault , you know,” I told him, kicking at the black stuff.
“My fault?” he choked.
“You’re the one who piled this crap on the ground where I could trip and fall.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve known you all of five minutes and even I know you would trip and fall over the wind. You certainly didn’t need my help to go rolling down this hill.”
I pulled my arm from his grasp, suddenly hating the way my body tingled beneath his touch. “Whatever,” I retorted (yeah, it was the best I could come up with) and stomped up the hill.
When I got there , another pair of headlights was approaching and a large tow truck pulled up near my car.
Thank God.
I waved my arms just so he was sure he had the right car and then hurried around to the driver’s side. A man wearing a pair of board shorts and a T-shirt stepped out. He didn’t look at all how I expected him to look.
Yes , I was stereotyping.
But my idea of a tow truck driver wasn ’t some twenty-something man with a surfer outfit and sunglasses on his head (even at night).
“Car trouble?” he asked.
“Yes. I think it’s the drive belt. But it could be more than that.” I gestured to the Jetta.
“You have a place you want me to tow it?”
“I’m not from around here. I drove in from Raleigh.”
“How long will you be here?”
“About a week.”
He nodded. “Well , my dad owns a small garage in Surf City over on the
I was about to tell him I had the situation handled when he crouched down beside me. His closeness was unsettling. Not because I was afraid, but because I liked it. It was almost like a cloud had drifted and revealed the sun. The heat coming off his body was intoxicating. I hadn’t even realized how cold I was until he showed me.
“Did you hurt yourself?” he asked.
“No, I’m just tangled up.”
He shook his head and pulled out what looked like a Swiss Army knife from his jeans. The moonlight glinted off the blade when he flicked it open.
My hackles raised as my heart started to pound when he reached for me. I jerked away and he grunted. “I’m going to cut you lose. Don’t move. You’ll just get tangled more.”
His fingers worked their way between my skin and the taut piece of chord wrapped around my ankle. I shivered and he paused . I felt his stare from beneath the brim of his hat, but I didn’t dare look up. I couldn’t. If I did, he might see I wasn’t shivering because I was cold.
His skin was smooth. Smooth as satin. There wasn’t a callous or rough spot on his hand. Even though he had to squeeze his touch beneath the belt, he was still gentle, like he honestly cared if he hurt me.
“Hold still,” he said again, this time his voice a mere whisper. With a deft hand , he slid the blade under the chord and within seconds sliced through the bind. Once it was cut, he worked quickly to unwind the rest from my leg.
After he tossed it aside , his hands skimmed down my calf and my eyes closed. When was the last time someone touched me? Like really touched me?
I didn’t know the answer.
And that realization made me incredibly sad. Emotion welled up in me and I fought against it. This wasn’t the time to cry. This wasn’t the time to decide I was some withering violet, because I most certainly was not.
“ Are you cut?” he asked, smoothing his hands over the area that had been confined.
I cleared my throat. “I don’t think so.”
“Is it around you anywhere else?”
Was it wrong I wished it was? “No.”
He removed his hands quickly, and I felt like a complete idiot for wishing they’d lingered. “Good,” he said, standing. On his feet, he towered over me, making me feel vulnerable and weak. I didn’t like to feel that way.
I started to stand and he reached for me, slipping his palm beneath my arm , and lifted, helping me to my feet. Even after I was standing, he kept hold of me, guiding my steps as I freed both my feet from the rest of the shredded belt.
“This is your fault , you know,” I told him, kicking at the black stuff.
“My fault?” he choked.
“You’re the one who piled this crap on the ground where I could trip and fall.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve known you all of five minutes and even I know you would trip and fall over the wind. You certainly didn’t need my help to go rolling down this hill.”
I pulled my arm from his grasp, suddenly hating the way my body tingled beneath his touch. “Whatever,” I retorted (yeah, it was the best I could come up with) and stomped up the hill.
When I got there , another pair of headlights was approaching and a large tow truck pulled up near my car.
Thank God.
I waved my arms just so he was sure he had the right car and then hurried around to the driver’s side. A man wearing a pair of board shorts and a T-shirt stepped out. He didn’t look at all how I expected him to look.
Yes , I was stereotyping.
But my idea of a tow truck driver wasn ’t some twenty-something man with a surfer outfit and sunglasses on his head (even at night).
“Car trouble?” he asked.
“Yes. I think it’s the drive belt. But it could be more than that.” I gestured to the Jetta.
“You have a place you want me to tow it?”
“I’m not from around here. I drove in from Raleigh.”
“How long will you be here?”
“About a week.”
He nodded. “Well , my dad owns a small garage in Surf City over on the
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