by Olivia Dade
Unfortunately, all these plans required the dude driving the little hybrid in front of her to locate his accelerator soon. If he didn’t, she could kiss the prospect of reading Long Train Coming—the anthology of railway-themed erotica she’d coveted for weeks—good-bye. Instead, she’d spend her evening following him at the speed of an arthritic sloth. For entertainment, she could look at the piles of boxes visible through his car’s rear windows and contemplate the suitcases strapped to his roof as she made her way home.
Anticlimactic, really.
The extreme slowness of the driver surprised her. She’d caught a glimpse of him when they’d rounded a sharp curve, and he looked young. In her experience, people this averse to acceleration whacked passersby with their canes and called people below the age of sixty whippersnappers.
There was no good place to pass the hybrid, though. Despite the fact that she hadn’t seen another car traveling in either direction for a few miles, the twisting road made it dangerous to go around him. Unless he turned onto a side street, she was stuck until she reached her neighborhood. She might as well relax and resign herself to a long, boring ride home.
As their little two-car parade neared the railroad tracks, Angie prepared to brake for the millionth time. To her surprise, though, the hybrid’s taillights didn’t illuminate. The car didn’t slow down. In fact . . . was he accelerating? What the hell?
The car ahead of her jolted over the tracks, the packages in and on the car shifting wildly.
“Oh, shit,” Angie said, darting a quick glance at the shoulder up ahead. Just in case.
For a moment, she thought she’d dodged a bullet. But then, right after she crossed the tracks herself, a suitcase from the car ahead of her rattled loose and flew straight toward her windshield.
“Fuck!” She jerked the steering wheel hard to the right and stomped on the brakes. With a piercing screech, her car shuddered and fishtailed. Her head snapped forward, and the sharp smell of burning rubber made her eyes water. Finally, her car came to a sudden and jarring halt on a patch of grass.
Angie took stock of herself. The seat belt had locked her into place, and her car hadn’t hit anything. Her neck might prove a little sore in the morning, but all in all, no permanent harm done. The same couldn’t be said for the navy suitcase that had flown off the hybrid’s roof, however. The case itself lay near the side of the two-lane road, splayed open by the impact. Its contents had landed all over the asphalt. A hundred feet ahead of her, the silver car—sans roof suitcase—had pulled off to the shoulder. So far, the driver hadn’t emerged.
Angie’s hands shook from the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Clearly, she couldn’t get back on the road for another minute or two. Not without risking an accident. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, attempting to calm her pounding heart. The faint crunch of feet on gravel filtered into her ears, but she paid no attention. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
A tentative tap on the window next to her made her jump. She opened her eyes and looked up. And up. And up.
A miracle stood beside her car. Or at least what passed for a miracle in rural Nice County, Maryland. The setting sun lit the man from behind, transforming his curly dark hair into a halo around his head. As she watched, he bent at the waist to peer into her window, but she could still tell that he was tall. Well over six feet. Even in the dusky light, his blue eyes stood out in sharp relief against his pale skin.
Tall. Dark haired. Handsome. Standing by her window with furrowed brows and his attention completely and utterly on her. Only her. Exactly what she needed to forget her terrible day at work.
Men like this didn’t exist in Angie’s small community—or if they did, they didn’t come her way too often. If he wasn’t a miracle, she could only conclude she’d died in the accident. Decapitation by suitcase wasn’t how she’d pictured going. It seemed kind of undignified. But she supposed most deaths lacked dignity, when you got right down to it. It wasn’t as if she’d lived her life with such a surfeit of decorum anyway.
She took another glance at his blue, blue eyes. Yup. No doubt about it. Death or a miracle. The only other options that sprang to mind, given her usual luck with men: He was going to carjack her. Or attempt to sell her magazines. Or proselytize. Or invite her to his upcoming wedding with Larry.
Of all those choices, a heavenly visitor seemed the best option. So when he tapped on the window again, she rolled it down to meet her Miracle Man. He leaned in closer and surveyed her with worried eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I can’t believe I—Jesus. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Sadly, the same can’t be said for your suitcase. What happened?”
Not that she really cared. No harm, no foul. She only wanted to get him talking so she could admire him for a few minutes more.
He sighed. “I dropped my sunglasses on the floor. I tried to pick them up and accidentally hit the gas. Also, I’m terrible at strapping things to my roof. Or so the evidence would indicate. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m Angie. Happy to meet you, handsome stranger.”
She held out her hand through the open window, and he stared at it for a moment without moving. Then he reached out and gave her fingers a careful squeeze.
“Grant Peterson. Again, I apologize for nearly beheading you with my luggage.” His deep voice rumbled through her ears and sent pleasant vibrations through her body.
At the touch of his skin against her own and the sight of that large hand encompassing hers so fully, she suppressed a shiver. “How tall are you?”
“Six feet and change,” he said, looking startled by the sudden change of topic.
“Because just looking at you makes me feel tiny. I loom over a lot of men, and it’s hard to feel dainty and feminine when you could crush a guy with one gigantic paw.” She waved her hand.
The corners of his lips tugged upward. At the same time, his eyes discreetly swept downward, taking a quick but careful inventory of all her important bits. “Dainty is overrated. And I don’t think any man would doubt you’re a woman. Not even if you were ten feet tall.”
Right after he spoke, his expression changed. He suddenly looked . . . confused. Disoriented. Why, Angie had no idea. She sympathized, though. At the moment, she felt a bit befuddled herself. Unbelievably flattered, but still. Befuddled. This guy seemed too good to be true. Hot, well-spoken, and sweet . . . There had to be something wrong with him. But what?
Everything about this man is absolutely right, her instincts insisted. Come on, Burrowes. Gather ye studs while ye may.
She couldn’t trust her own instincts, though. After all, they’d almost gotten her fired earlier today. So before she did what they were screaming for her to do—claim this man before he got away—she needed to address a few key issues.
“What a lovely compliment,” she said. “Grant, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
He blinked at her. “I . . . suppose so. Okay.”
“Are you single? And straight?” she asked. “It’s fine if you aren’t straight, by the way. I can admire you in a different way. Like you’re a statue. Or a hot priest. You know, gorgeous but out of reach.”
“Yes. To both questions.” The tips of his ears had turned pink, only adding to his adorability.
“Are you a serial killer? Be honest.”
“Of course not,” he said. “But wouldn’t I say that even if I were?”
“That’s true.” She tapped her chin with her index finger. “I’ll have to hope if you are a murderer, you only hunt other killers.”
“I think those types of murderers are less common than television would have us believe.”
She laughed. “You’re probably right about that.”
“Rest assured that the only danger I pose to you comes in the form of airborne baggage.”
“That’s nice to hear,” she said.
She took a moment to bask in the glory of Grant Pe
terson, the only man she’d ever interrogated this way. Something about him—his looks, his concern, the hint of shyness—made her breath catch and sent electricity buzzing through her veins. Warmed her, inside and out.
The tiniest bit of dark stubble roughened his cheeks and chin, accentuating his strong jaw. He’d rolled the sleeves of his button-down shirt up to his elbows, exposing hair-dusted forearms and broad hands that seemed strong. Capable. From what she could tell through his clothes, his flat stomach flowed into slim hips and firm thighs. She chose to avoid looking between those thighs. No point in sexually harassing the man—well, not more than she already had—until she knew the answer to her last question.
The man was handsome. No question about that. But Angie had spied other handsome men before and never experienced this sort of instantaneous magnetic draw. Hell, she could barely stop from plastering herself to his side like an iron filing.
So maybe she wasn’t responding to his handsomeness. At least, not entirely. Maybe what tempted her most was the aura of innocence surrounding him. With those dark curls, clear blue eyes, and pale skin, he looked like a grown-up choirboy. Like a man who’d chosen the right path—the reasonable, honorable one—his entire life.
She couldn’t help it. She wanted to debauch him.
“I hesitate to ask,” he said. “But do you have any more questions?” He smiled at her again, this time showing a few teeth. Even, white teeth. Either the man had won the genetics lottery or he’d suffered through years of braces, like her.
She took a deep breath and went for it. “Are you interested? In me?”
His eyes flicked down to the pavement. He waited so long to answer that her belly clenched and the beginnings of an embarrassed flush heated her cheeks.
“It’s okay if you aren’t,” she said. “I know we just met, and—”
“I don’t usually move this fast, but . . . yes. Yes, I’m interested,” he said, meeting her eyes again. “And I have three questions to ask you.” He set his hands on the bottom of the car window frame and leaned toward her.
“Bring ’em on.” She grinned at him and laid a hand on the frame between his.
Yes, I’m single. Yes, I’m straight. Yes, I’d like to watch you turn around and bend from the waist to pick up something from the ground.
No fear. She could answer any question he wanted.
“Are you sure you’re all right? Do you want to get examined at the hospital?”
She’d imagined a sexier first question. Not a sweeter or more considerate one, though.
“I’m fine,” she said. “My neck might be a little sore, but that’s about it. No need to worry. What’s your second question?”
“Are you always this . . . impulsive?” he asked.
Her smile faded, and she struggled to bring it back. “Ever since I was a kid. Believe it or not, my parents are actuaries. I’m a grave disappointment to them.”
As she spoke, his brows drew together. He looked down to where his hands lay near hers on the window frame. With great deliberation, he moved his right index finger until it nudged against her own. The tiny touch sent unbelievable warmth up through her arm, arrowing to her chest.
“That wasn’t a criticism, Angie,” he said softly. “Only a question.”
“What’s your third one?” She looked down at their hands for a moment, marveling at the unexpected sweetness of comfort offered through a single fingertip.
“Will you stay here while I clean up this mess”—he nodded toward the cluttered roadway—“and then let me buy you a drink?”
She grinned at him. “No.”
“No?” His face fell, and his hands curled in on themselves.
“No. I’ll get out and help you. And then you can buy me a drink.”
“You don’t have to. I’m at fault here,” he protested.
Weird. His eyes had brightened at her answer, but he still seemed kind of... anxious. Squirrelly. The last time she’d seen someone this fidgety, little Freddie had run out of her Saturday storytime with his hands clutching his crotch. But Grant didn’t look like he had to pee. No, he looked like he was hiding something. But what?
“I know I don’t have to. I want to,” she said. “Now please scooch a bit so I can get out of my car.”
“Sooner or later, another car is going to pass by, and I don’t want you dodging traffic on the road. It would make me nervous. And like I said, it’s my mess. I’ll clean it up.”
She unfastened her seat belt and gave him a little bump with her car door. “I’m a big girl, Grant. I appreciate your concern, but I can take care of myself. There’s no need to do this on your own.”
His face had turned a vivid shade of pink, although he moved aside to let her out. “But I—”
“Let’s knock this out so we can go get a drink. There’s the suitcase.” She pointed to where it lay on the road. “If you grab it, I can help you repack it with—” For the first time, she took a closer look at the road and the suitcase contents strewn all over it. Were those . . . ? Yes. Yes, they were. She’d seen them many times before, obviously. But not in this particular context. Or in this particular quantity.
He stood silently and shifted from foot to foot, his eyes on the suitcase.
“Holy shit, Grant. Did a condom factory explode all over the road? Or are you just happy to see me?”
3
Grant checked his watch in the increasingly dim light. Angie had been busting his chops now for about . . . fifteen minutes. He had to hand it to her. The woman knew the value of persistence.
“Wow. The variety and sheer quantity of these condoms . . .” Angie gave him a little bow as she tossed another handful of rubbers into his suitcase. “I congratulate you on either your stamina or your ability to buy in bulk. Hopefully the former.”
There was no point in explaining himself. He knew it. But he figured it didn’t hurt to try. “I already told you, they were a joke gift from my brother.” He rolled his eyes. “And there aren’t that many.”
“Tell that to the horny couples desperately searching the empty shelves of every convenience store in Maryland,” she said. “And you still haven’t explained why your brother gave them to you as a joke. What was the joke?”
“It’s embarrassing,” he muttered. Gathering the last handful of foil packets, he walked over to the side of the road, where he’d dragged his suitcase earlier. Thank goodness this road didn’t get a lot of cars. Otherwise, the two of them might have spent hours darting through traffic to clean up his ample supply of birth control.
“More embarrassing than the simple fact that you were carrying hundreds of condoms in your suitcase? And that they ended up all over a rural Nice County highway?”
When she put it like that, holding out on her did seem kind of pointless.
“Until you tell me, I’m going to speculate wildly about why you could open your own condom superstore with the contents of your suitcase. Do you triple-wrap yourself for freshness?”
She paused, waiting for a response. When he could only manage a sputter, she continued. “Maybe you’re making balloon animals out of them. Or . . . could you be Wilt Chamberlain in disguise?” She grinned up at him from a pile of his underwear on the pavement.
His breath caught a little at that wide smile on her expressive face. Angie was like no other woman he’d ever met. Everything about her seemed . . . more. Like she’d somehow found an internal volume control and turned it up to eleven.
The woman boasted the most joyful smile he’d ever had the pleasure to witness. The shiniest blond hair. The brightest green eyes. The raunchiest sense of humor. The tallest, most lush body. The most enticing bow of a mouth. And the things that came out of that mouth . . .
The women he usually met at work hid themselves under a cloak of reserve and shyness. Not that he blamed them. No one had ever called him an extrovert, and no one ever would. But Angie didn’t seem to conceal herself or hold back in any way. She laid bare her thoughts, emotions, and desires. Or
at least he thought she did. Really, he didn’t know her well enough to be sure.
He wanted to, though. Definitely. And she’d made it plain that she wanted to know him better, too.
Something about her inspired him. He’d never asked a woman out after just five minutes of conversation. Never flirted as he’d done during that conversation. Never thought seriously about taking a woman to bed after knowing her such a short time.
Maybe his brother possessed an undiscovered psychic power: the ability to predict how much birth control others would need in the near future. It was a talent with limited applications, true. But still impressive. Maybe even useful, if things progressed with Angie as Grant hoped they would.
“Okay, okay,” Grant said. “I’ll tell you.”
She propped her curvy butt against the front fender of his car, resting her hands on her hips. “I’m listening.”
He moved to her side and mimicked her position. Better not to face her as he explained.
“I’ve had trouble in the past finding condoms that . . .” He hesitated. “. . . work for me. My brother found that hilarious. So he bought as many condoms in as many different brands, sizes, and styles as he could, gave them to me as a Christmas gift, and told me to run some experiments and gather data. He’s a scientist. A microbiologist. An obnoxious one. I’m too cheap to throw them out, and my brother didn’t keep the receipts. So here they are.”
He cautiously glanced Angie’s way. She was staring at him, seemingly fascinated, with her head tilted to one side.
“About ninety-nine percent of our gifts under the family tree this year were condoms,” he added. “It was quite a Christmas.”
Angie’s mouth opened. “I—”
She thought for a moment, tapping a finger against her chin, before she spoke again. When she did, she spoke slowly. Almost like the words had been dragged out of her. “I know it’s none of my business, but . . . I have to know. Why don’t most condoms work for you?”