by Dylann Crush
“Thanks.” She twisted off the cap and gulped down a few swallows. Take that, spastic diaphragm. Nine-hundred and twelve miles. Even if Zach kept it under the speed limit, they’d still make it to Miami in sixteen hours or less.
Reagan popped the bottle into the cup holder and turned on the radio. “How about some tunes?”
“Sure,” Zach said. “Find something good.”
Her fingers flipped through the stations, finally settling on a pop station. As Zach shifted the manual transmission into gear and eased the car away from the curb, Rihanna’s voice blasted through the speakers, urging them to “Shut Up and Drive.”
“Nice song choice,” Zach said. Took him right back to their high school days. Not that he’d been a huge Rihanna fan. More like Foo Fighters and Pearl Jam.
“Do you care if I try to grab a nap?” Hiccup. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Go ahead. I can handle the road. I’ll find us somewhere to stop for lunch in, what, a couple of hours?”
Reagan slid her sunglasses off and leaned the chair back. “That would be great.”
She snuggled up as best she could in the cramped space and closed her eyes.
Shut up and drive? He could do that. Would give him a chance to think and try to make sense of the past twenty-four hours. He should be madder than hell at the little stunt she pulled back at the airport. His work took him around the globe, and he’d racked up enough airline miles to almost guarantee he’d never fly coach again. TSA even had him on the pre-check list.
Guess that didn’t matter if his traveling companion started spouting off about bombs. At least he didn’t get banned. Who knew when, and if, he’d ever end up with a hot shoot in Louisville? After the crappy hotel and the forced intimacy at the airport, he wouldn’t be too anxious to return to the Bluegrass state.
GPS directed him onto Interstate 65 south, and he revved the engine to merge onto the highway. The car hadn’t been necessary. But last-minute options were somewhat limited. It was either spring for the Mustang or cram the two of them into an ultra-compact that probably topped out at fifty miles per hour. Each passing mile got him closer to the end of this highway to hell. The faster they went, the sooner he could drop Reagan off and figure out what part, if any, he wanted to play in exposing her family.
When Scazzoli first approached him about getting a shot of Senator Campbell with his mistress, Zach had politely declined. But then Scazzoli threatened him and Zach didn’t have a choice. Either get the picture of Senator Campbell or Scazzoli would expose Zach as the source of some very uncompromising images taken of Zach’s largest client’s wife.
So Zach agreed. If the senator was fucking around, he deserved whatever fallout came his way. Taking him down a peg or two might even provide a tiny bit of satisfaction for finally getting a vengeful shot at the man who’d made him let Reagan go.
But that was before Reagan entered the picture and Scazzoli upped the ante. Zach wasn’t sure if he could toss Reagan and Teddy under the bus along with their dad, not even if it meant getting out from under Scazzoli’s thumb for good. If he could find a way out of the mess he was swimming in, he might be able to strike out on his own—something he’d dreamed about doing for years.
His mind reeled with the possibilities. Should he set up shop in LA or move his home base to the East coast? His dream of becoming a legit travel photographer slowly came into focus. Maybe a small gallery where he could sell prints and larger panoramic canvases. He’d have to hire someone to manage the shop while he went out on shoots.
There were so many places he wanted to visit again. That monastery in Nepal. The Baa Atoll in the Maldives. The Iguaza Falls between Argentina and Brazil. So many places where he’d barely scratched the surface. Currently, he’d fly in for twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Long enough to assess the lighting, grab a few hundred shots, usually of half-naked women, and be back on his way to LA again before he even had a chance to explore. It would be nice to be in charge of his time. To take the shots he wanted. To not have to work against someone else’s timeline or budget for a change.
He sneaked a glance at Reagan. Everything would fall into place. It had to. He could get her to Florida, make up some excuse for Scazzoli about why he couldn’t get shots of the wedding, then try to salvage his agreement by snagging an incriminating photo of Senator Campbell if he showed up with his mistress.
The twinge ricocheted through his gut. Shit. He was doing the right thing. It’s not like he was going to actually take the wedding pictures Scazzoli wanted. He twisted the cap off his bottle and guzzled water, trying to drown out the twinge.
Senator Campbell was a public figure. Put yourself in that kind of a position, you had to expect the drama and bullshit that went along with it. Zach would do what he could to protect Reagan and keep the vultures away. But as a politician’s kid, Reagan had experienced the limelight, even at its most unflattering.
His cheeks burned at the memory of the graduation party. That had blown way out of proportion. How was he to know that Jimmy would be waiting with a cell phone to capture the outcome of their closet experience on film? Yeah, the aftermath had been shitty.
But before that—he glanced over at Reagan again—the months he spent with her before it all went to hell…those had been spectacular.
A commercial came on the radio. He scanned through the other channels, finally settling on some bluegrass. When in Rome… A banjo twanged and the lyrics went on about being young and in love.
Screw that.
The woman’s voice held a slight yodel, and she went on and on about having her heart broken. Been there, done that.
He’d never understood the emotional rollercoaster of falling in and out of love. After he’d been forced to break it off with Reagan, he’d never been interested in trying again. Sure, he’d been attracted to many women over the years. Even ended up in a couple of relationships. But when push came to shove and they started talking about meeting parents or spending the holidays together, it was time to move on.
Independence meant freedom. And freedom meant no one else would ever have the power to hurt him again.
The Mustang ate up the pavement and the miles ticked away faster than the minutes on the digital clock on the dash. Reagan made little noises in her sleep. A snort here, a sigh there. Her hiccups had subsided.
His mouth quirked into a smile. First time he’d ever heard that obnoxious sound coming from her slim frame, he’d laughed out loud. It seemed even funnier when he realized the more embarrassed and nervous she got, the worse her hiccups became. He remembered wondering how the hell he was supposed to kiss her if she kept barking in his face. Funny thing, though, from the moment he had touched his lips to hers, the hiccups went away.
Reagan stirred and opened her eyes. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.”
“How long have I been asleep?” She stretched her arms over her head.
After thinking about their high school days, seeing her all sprawled out, lazy-like, on the seat next to him made him want to pull over to the shoulder and climb into the passenger seat with her. But he couldn’t. He’d screwed things up back then. He wouldn’t take the risk again.
“About an hour. You hungry? There’s an exit coming up with a bunch of food options.”
“Yeah. I could go for some lunch. How far have we come?” She adjusted the seat back to a more upright position.
“Only about a hundred miles.”
“Only another eight hundred or so to go.”
Zach pointed to an approaching highway sign. “Take your pick. Looks like barbecue or a truck stop diner. There haven’t been a whole lot of choices.”
“Probably a better chance of getting a salad at the diner. Let’s do that.”
“You got it.” Zach turned on the blinker and eased onto the exit ramp, stuffing his memories back in the dark corner of his brain where he’d always hidden them away.
8
The waitress wore a light blue
polyester dress with an apron tied around her waist. Thick, rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the linoleum floor as she approached the cracked vinyl booth by the window Zach had chosen. “What can I getcha, sweetie?”
“Iced tea with a squeeze of lemon?” Reagan asked.
“Sweetened or unsweetened?”
“Unsweetened.”
“Coke for me,” Zach said.
“You got it. My name’s Doris. Holler when you’re ready to order.” She tucked her order pad into her apron and slid her pen behind her ear as she tottered back to the kitchen.
Reagan glanced around the interior of the truck stop. A thin layer of grease covered most surfaces. She hadn’t been in a place like this, since, well, probably never.
“Do you think they have much in the way of light menu fare?” she asked Zach as her gaze traveled down the plastic-coated menu.
“If it’s like any diner I’ve ever been in, your best bet is probably breakfast. It’s hard to mess up scrambled eggs and toast. Of course, you already had breakfast…” His words trailed off, and she lifted her gaze to his. A crooked smile graced his mouth.
Reagan cleared her throat. “I was hoping for something a little less fried and a little more organic.”
“Hmm. We probably should have stopped at that farm-to-market place at the last exit.”
Reagan flipped her menu closed. “Really? A farm-to-market restaurant in the middle of rural Kentucky? Why didn’t you say so? How far back was it?”
He slapped his palm down on the table. “Jeez, Reagan, I’m joking. You’re lucky we came across this place. Why don’t you just get a burger?”
“Very funny.” First the cupcake, now she’d digress into the land of fried, flavorful food. What next? Would she let her diet backslide into snacking on potato chips and licorice sticks as they barreled down the highway?
“What, you don’t eat burgers? Are you a vegetarian or something?”
“No. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a vegetarian. I had chicken on the nachos last night, remember?” Was that only last night when she and Zach had met up at the bar and reminisced over drinks and a platter of cheese-loaded chips? Seemed like weeks ago since she’d been tossed into this alternate reality of back roads with the bad boy from her past.
Doris approached the table and slid two tall, red plastic cups toward them. Then she pulled two straws from her apron and set them on the table. “Y’all figure out what you want yet? The blue-plate special is meatloaf with mashed potatoes and green beans with bacon.”
Blue-plated heart attack special sounded more like it. “What comes on a house salad?” Reagan asked.
Doris turned her pale blue gaze on Reagan. “Lettuce. Croutons. Cherry tomato or two. If I put in a good word with the chef, he might slip you some bacon bits or a couple pinches of shredded cheddar.”
“That would be lovely.” Reagan handed over her menu. “I’ll take the house salad, hold the bacon bits and cheese, with extra veggies, please.”
“What kind of dressing?”
“Do you have anything fat free?”
“We have Ranch or Italian. Comes in a packet so you can use as much or as little as you want, sugar.”
“Can I please get some oil and vinegar?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” She turned her attention to Zach. “And for you?”
“The meatloaf sounds delicious.”
Doris gave him a cheeky wink then nodded and scooted away.
“So, I’ve been thinking about this trip of ours…” Zach started.
Reagan looked at him. Really looked. Even in the same clothes, no shower, victim of a strip search, he still exuded an air of vitality like he was ready to step out onto a beach somewhere.
She ducked her head, attempting to take an inconspicuous whiff to check herself for BO. She hadn’t even washed her face this morning, much less had access to deodorant or her bag of makeup tricks. And the faint pink stain from the salsa still decorated the front of her shirt. Hopefully no one would recognize her so far from home.
“I’m sorry again. I bestow infinite apologies for getting you wrapped up in my hell,” she said. He was sweet to take partial responsibility for getting her to Florida. She wouldn’t have been able to hold it against him if he’d left her stranded in Louisville. The fact he was willing to drop everything and cart her down the coast had elevated his status beyond incredible boy-man she’d lusted after and thought she’d fallen in love with in high school to someone she respected as a really nice guy.
“You need to stop apologizing. I really don’t mind. I have the time. Like I said before, I wasn’t going to leave you stranded.”
“I hope you’re keeping track of how much you’re spending. I’m going to pay you back every dime, I promise.”
Zach leaned back against the booth. “I’m not worried about the money. But I am a little worried about driving through the night. I’ll get us as far as I can tonight, but I don’t know that we’ll get all the way to Miami unless you’re willing to take a shift behind the wheel.”
“I can’t. I don’t know how to drive a stick, and besides, I don’t have my license.”
“Always a rule follower.” He shook his head.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. I can’t afford to break the rules. My dad’s a senator. Everything I do—”
“Reflects on him. The Campbells have an image to maintain. How could I forget?” He ran his hands through his hair and clasped them together on the table in front of him.
“What do you mean?”
“Forget it.” He glanced away.
“No. What are you talking about?”
“I was just thinking about the graduation party.” Zach’s gaze met hers. “The closet? Ringing a bell?”
She bit her lip. So he remembered it too. Silly to think that the best make-out session she’d ever had in her life had been on a dare in high school. They shared a kind of chemistry she’d compared every other relationship to since. And none of them had ever measured up. Her palms went clammy and her chest seized in pre-hiccup paralysis. She took a long draw on her tea. Too late.
Hiccup.
Zach’s mouth spread into a grin. “You had the hiccups that night in the closet.”
Her eyes went wide. “You’re right. I did.”
He set his palms flat on the table.
Hiccup.
Rising from the bench seat across from her, his gaze never left hers. Her limbs froze in place, breath hitched in her throat, ass stuck to the vinyl bench seat like she’d sat in a puddle of super glue. The only thing unfortunately not struck by instant paralysis was her diaphragm.
Hiccup.
He leaned across the table. Incoming. Questioning eyes probed hers. A hand brushed the hair from her cheek. She drew in a breath of his musky maleness as his face drew closer and closer.
Hiccup.
“The only thing that got rid of your hiccups that night was when I did this.” His hand cupped the back of her neck and gently pulled her face closer to his. Their lips connected with the briefest touch.
Hiccups stalled and retreated.
Shell-shocked, her body slowly reacted to the sensation of Zach’s lips on hers. A rush of heat flowed through her, defrosting her frozen state. Her hand fisted in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and she rose halfway off the bench. The kiss deepened, his mouth parting. The warmth of his tongue ran along the seam of her closed lips and she eagerly accepted, sucking his tongue into her mouth, hungry for the taste of him.
“Ahem!”
The clatter of a plate being set down on the table startled them from their embrace. They broke apart. Reagan wiped at her mouth as she turned sideways in the booth, trying to compose herself.
“Y’all keep that up and we’ll have to call the fire department to put out the flames.” Doris set Reagan’s salad in front of her. “Blue plate special and a house salad, extra veggies.”
“Thanks, Doris.” Zach gave her the smile with the dim
ples while Reagan tried to pull herself together.
Doris’s eyes twinkled as she tucked the tray under her arm. “You need a refill on that Coke yet, honey?”
“Not quite yet, but thanks,” he said.
“Enjoy your meal. I’ll check back with you in a bit.”
Reagan tamped down the heat humming through her limbs and tried to pretend nothing happened. The damn hiccups were probably just pissing him off. She’d have to do an Internet search to see if having a tongue down her throat constituted a well-known home remedy to combat the hiccups.
She unrolled her silverware from her napkin and placed it in her lap as she assessed the bowl in front of her. Doris hadn’t been embellishing when she described the salad. A combination of iceberg and romaine with a handful of croutons and four cherry tomatoes. Guess those additional tomatoes constituted the extra veggies.
Too embarrassed to risk a glance at Zach, she focused on drizzling the right combination of oil and vinegar over the top. The appetizing scent of fried bacon, garlic and onions wafted across the table from Zach’s giant platter of food. Her stomach rumbled like the Harley her neighbor back in Chicago cruised around on every weekend.
Zach lifted a fork of mashed potatoes to his mouth. “Let me know if you want a bite after you’re done gnawing on all that rabbit food. Wouldn’t want you to be hungry later.” He smirked and shoved the bite into his mouth, embellishing on the expression of enjoyment playing across his face. “Oh, by the way, you’re welcome, cupcake.”
Her head shot up. She crunched the bite of salad and swallowed before answering. “Welcome for what?”
“Hiccups are gone, aren’t they?” He raised his cup toward her like a toast and sucked down a big swallow.
Damn him. The hiccups were gone. Banished back to the pit of her gut, like they had been in the closet at Jimmy Baldwin’s house. She wanted to wipe that smug, satisfied look off Zach’s face. But she also kind of wished for the hiccups again. So long as Zach would be ready with a repeat of his potent cure-all.
Reagan nibbled at the last piece of wilted lettuce as he sopped up the remaining bits of gravy with a homemade buttermilk biscuit. He’d told her to order breakfast. Not that pathetic excuse of a salad. Doris came by with the check, and he slapped his credit card down on the tray before she left the table. Reagan hadn’t said much while they ate. Did she feel so out of her usual self-control that his kiss had actually left her speechless?