by Lia Riley
She closed her eyes briefly, but when she turned back, her gaze was bright and earnest. “I’m glad we crossed paths. You’re the right guy at the wrong time.”
“Usually I’m the wrong guy at the right time.” His laugh contained more than a hint of unease as he ground the clutch, something he hadn’t done in years.
Traffic was light due to the storm and it didn’t take long to leave the Vegas city limits. Freckles withdrew into the corner, making herself as small as possible. After a few long hours, quiet beyond the country music station’s warbling, Archer stopped for gas. “Can I grab you a snack?” he asked, not liking her pale cheeks.
“No thank you.” She shook her head, hard to do when half her forehead pressed against the window.
She needed something to eat, but what? An old hot dog from the roller grill wasn’t an option after she’d nicely refused the beef jerky and candy bars. Shit. He filled up and headed into the station, decked out for St. Patrick’s Day, shamrock streamers crisscrossing the ceiling. The guy behind the counter wore a t-shirt that read “Let’s get ready to stumble” with a picture of two drunken leprechauns toasting beer steins.
“Comin’ from Vegas?” the cashier asked with a knowing smile.
Archer chucked pretzels on the counter. “What’s the giveaway?”
“Looks like you haven’t slept in a while.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Well, you must not be Irish, because you’re flat outta luck today.” The guy slipped a fat pinch of chew into his lower lip. “That big storm caused a landslide and a major accident. Highway patrol says the road ahead will be closed for hours.”
That meant more hours alone with Freckles, with her warm vanilla smells, sweet smiles, and serious gazes that made him wish he were a better man with more to offer. He squinted at the overcast sky while exiting the station, truth clobbering him over the head. Here was a woman who made him want to dig deep for his best self—she surprised and fascinated him, and made him smile, one of those grins that makes you get warm down deep. Since he was a kid, he’d been the one trying to get others to take life less seriously, but the joke was on him. If he ever wanted a prayer of deserving a woman like this, he had to get his ass in gear.
Freckles stood behind Philomena, bracing her hand on the bumper and wiping her mouth.
“Are you okay?” He scanned her face with concern.
“Just a minute.” She held up a hand, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I need a little more fresh air.”
“Is it the flu? Or—”
“Car sickness.” She grimaced. “I’ve had it since I was a child.”
“Why didn’t you say anything? Ask me to pull over?”
Her shoulders slumped. “I—I was afraid if I tried to talk, I’d throw up.”
He reached into the truck and grabbed her a water bottle. “And here I thought you were just . . . quiet.”
Her lips crooked into a ghost of a smile before she took a sip. “I can be that too.”
What now? Archer rubbed his unshaven jaw. He couldn’t load her back in the truck to risk getting sick all over again, especially not if they could be stuck for hours. His own head pounded and she looked ready to topple over. A motel sat across the street, small, plain, and cheap, the same dull brown as the surrounding Nevada desert. “Big Dick’s Inn: No Meth Heads Allowed.” Seriously? Well, beggars can’t be choosers. He waited until she climbed in the passenger seat and then steered into the adjacent parking lot, cutting the engine.
“Wait here.”
Her eyes widened at the sign. “Why are we stopping?”
“The guy in the gas station said there’s an accident ahead. The road closure could last hours and you look like you need a proper rest. Don’t worry, I’ll get separate rooms.”
“Please don’t put yourself to extra trouble,” she muttered, dropping her gaze. “I hate being a nuisance.”
“You’ve made yourself my business,” he responded firmly. “And a nap will do you a world of good.” Damn, he sounded as bossy as Grandma.
“Very well.” She reached in her purse with a sigh and withdrew a crisp bill. “Take this.”
He traded a bemused stare with Benjamin Franklin.
“For the rooms,” she pressed.
He waved her off. “I don’t need your money.”
“Please take it anyway. I know you’re only stopping because of me.”
“Leave it alone.” His voice took on an uncharacteristically testy edge. Did she think he couldn’t afford this dump? He slammed out and stalked into the office before she could say another word.
Inside, a big man sat in an undershirt and red suspenders, watching Days of Our Lives. This, presumably was Big Dick.
“Hi there, I need to book two rooms.”
Big Dick dug a hand into his bag of pork rinds, eyes fixed on the small screen. “Can’t do that.”
“This is a motel, right? You book rooms here.”
Big Dick burped into his fist. “If I got ’em, I can book ’em.”
“You’re full?” This place was smack dab in the middle of nowhere.
“Big landslide before Beatty. Road is closed, might be all night. People’ve been stopping for the last hour.”
Archer dug out his Lifesavers, took one without looking at the flavor and bit down. Pineapple. Figures. “You don’t have any rooms?”
Big Dick gave a slow blink. “No.”
“So you do?”
“No.”
Archer took a deep breath and crushed the candy between him molars. “Are you messing with me?”
“I’ve got a room. Single.” Big Dick held up a thick finger. “Uno.”
Would Freckles go for that? Sharing a room with a stranger? The other option was a long detour to the 373, take the 190 through Death Valley and then cut north. But she’d already called off her wedding and vomited. It was time to call it a day.
“I’ll take it,” he said, digging out his wallet.
When he came back out to the truck, Freckles stared at the sole room key.
“There’s only one available,” he said. “It looks like other people had the same idea about stopping rather than being stuck in their cars. Don’t worry, if you’re uncomfortable, I can crash in the truck.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said, even as she clutched her purse. “I’m hardly worried you’ll rob me, seeing as I can’t even force cash on you.”
“Where I come from, a gentleman does the paying,” he said, helping her out.
“Where I come from, men and women have equal rights and it’s called the twenty-first century.”
“If I ever venture to your part of the country, you can take me out, how’s that for a deal?”
She gave a faint smile. “Acceptable.”
“You sure you don’t want to keep me in the truck? I don’t mind. I’ve slept in worse places.”
She paused, cocking her head. “I’ve made the decision to trust you. I can, can’t I?”
“Yeah, because I’m not some sort of serial killer scouting victims on the strip.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You couldn’t be—you’re too nice.”
“First rule about serial killers is that they always seem nice. That’s how they lure you in.” An unfamiliar instinct rose inside him. He needed her safe and protected. “Promise you won’t jump in the truck of the next man who’s friendly to you at a diner.”
“This isn’t my normal routine,” she whispered. “Just so you know.”
He didn’t think so but was damn curious about how she lived her day-to-day. He unlocked the front door. The room was cramped, with dingy Hawaiian-print drapes, but relatively clean. The ’80s-era bedspread featured leopards and tigers lounging against a lush jungle backdrop.
“Classy joint. Now, let’s get you into a hot shower. I mean—” He cleared his throat. “You’ll get yourself in the shower. I can scrounge us a late lunch.” And try not to picture you under the steaming spray. Ah, hell, who was
he trying to kid? Freckles might rival Jules Verne for being out of his league, but it would be impossible not to imagine her naked and soapy. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. There’s a roadhouse next door, I’ll humble myself and check if there is anything meatless on the menu.”
“Grilled cheese would be fabulous,” she answered. “That’s hard to mess up. But would you please request that they use real cheese, none of that plastic kind? Also if they have sliced pickles, see if they could be included.”
“In the sandwich?”
She looked at him like he was an idiot. “A pickle is an essential grilled cheese sandwich ingredient.”
“I am going to have to disagree.”
“What could be better?”
“Uh . . . bacon?” he answered, holding up a finger. “No wait, more bacon.”
“You and your bacon.” She gave a faint laugh. “That’s all nitrates and sodium, linked to cancers and heart disease.”
“We all have to go sometime, sweetheart,” he said with a grin. “Have yourself a nice shower.”
Her expressive eye roll made him chuckle as he left the motel room. Ah, last words could be so perfect. He went into the roadhouse and it turned out they could make grilled cheese Freckle’s way so he placed an additional order for himself, plus two sides of fries, and root beer. He popped one of the lids as he walked back to the motel and took a bite. Aw, man, was that ever good. Note to self: Let Freckles order forever.
He tripped in a parking lot pothole. Not that he’d have a forever with Freckles. She was no doubt nursing a broken heart behind that reserved exterior while he had to knuckle down and figure out his life. But—he paused, halfway into the room—it was impossible not to let his imagination wander when she stood there almost naked. At least wonderfully exposed from mid-thigh down, and yep, that was definitely cleavage poking above the towel.
“I didn’t bring a change of clothes,” she said, shifting her weight in the bathroom doorway, her ear tips a dark shade of red.
He could look away, but he’d never pretended to be a priest. Any all-American, red-blooded male was honor bound to bear witness to Freckles with wet, mussed hair, and in a too-small towel hinting at sexy-as-sin curves beneath.
Except her gaze didn’t appear alluring, instead her eyes looked tired and more than a little embarrassed.
Well, shit. He might not be a priest but he could act like a gentleman, at least once in a blue moon. “Hey now, I’ve got to have something that you can borrow.” He set down the cardboard lunch boxes on the bed and unzipped his duffel bag.
Her eyes widened. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but we have a significant size difference.”
He tossed her a t-shirt. “As much as I’d like you to wear nothing but that towel for the rest of the evening, you’ll be more comfortable in this.”
“I’m not sure if I should be offended or flattered,” she said, balling the cotton in her fist.
He kicked off his boots and sat on the edge of the bed. “I have that effect on people.” He opened his sandwich box and shoved a fry into his mouth.
She retreated to the bathroom. “I suppose you think this is funny,” she called out.
“What can I say? I like a laugh,” he responded.
“Hardy har har.” She reemerged. The white t-shirt hung to her knees and read “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” in a bold red font. Beneath were bare legs. Nice legs. Fantastic actually.
Damn.
“Got to say, that’s a good look on you, Freckles,” he said, his throat thickening.
“I’m well aware you can play connect the dots on my face.”
He caught the hurt in her eyes and hated that he’d put it there. “Hey now, I didn’t mean any disrespect. I like your freckles. They are sexy as hell, in a purely platonic way of course.” He hustled to change the subject. “So, Eden Bankcroft-Kew, your name is long.”
Long? He resisted the urge to face palm. Looked like his game had packed up and left town.
At least the uncharacteristic fumble earned him a tight smile. “You’ll never guess my middle name.”
He cleared his throat, trying to make a recovery. “What is it, Victoria?”
“No, but not far off. It begins with a V.”
“Vanessa? Vanna? Vivienne?”
“Valentina.”
“How did you remember to spell that as a kid?”
“Slowly,” she quipped, and he laughed good and loud.
“I like you, even if you are a little crazy.” Yeah, she might be an Eden to the world, but inside there was a hidden sense of humor, definitely more of an Edie. Although in his arms, she’d be Freckles. He cleared his throat, raking a hand through his hair. “All right, Eden Valentina Whatchamacallit Bankcroft-Kew. Sit down and eat your sandwich and tell me more about yourself.”
She perched on the opposite side of the bed, crossed her legs and opened the food box with a muted groan of appreciation. “Oh, you got French fries too. For that, I’ll agree to anything.”
He’d have the rest of the afternoon with Edie, and how great would it be to wake up and see her in the morning? The idea should scare him half to death. He’d never had anything like this happen to him, feelings that were complicated, layered, and so fast he had whiplash. He had a simple road to follow, get her safe and sound to Brightwater, but his heart seemed eager to travel in a new direction for the first time.
Chapter Five
DESPITE THE DAY’S miserable circumstances Eden found herself with a suddenly ravenous appetite. The carsickness abated and the fact she wasn’t married to Reggie made her feel more alive than in recent memory. Soon she’d be safe with Quincy and he would help her figure out how to deal with Reggie’s vague but sinister threat. It would be nice to reconnect with her cousin. Some good had to come from this awful situation. When a door slammed, a window always opened. At least that was life according to The Sound of Music, and far be it from her to criticize the wisdom of her favorite movie.
For too long she’d lived a half-life in Manhattan, and that chapter was finished. Tomorrow she’d turn a fresh page, travel an unknown road to a new destination. Turned out change was mysterious and yet a little exhilarating—who knew? She took a big bite of sandwich. The sourdough bread and cheddar cheese undercut with a hint of sourness tasted better than anything in recent memory. “You know,” she dabbed her mouth with a paper napkin, “pickles might be my favorite food.”
“That a fact?” Archer sounded amused, wiping his palms on faded-denim-clad knees. “Back at the diner, you seemed like a woman who had more . . . how do I put this . . . gourmet tastes.”
How did his jeans fit like a second sexy skin? “Well, I do adore tiramisu,” she croaked, trying to distract herself, and beginning to ramble. “Or . . . oh, I know, breaking the top of a perfect crème brûlée! Ooh and what about a nice brioche with raspberry jam? Pure heaven. Cooking is my favorite hobby after all, baking in particular.” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “That’s why my next favorite hobby is running. Bake. Eat. Run. Repeat. My life motto.”
His right eye twitched. “You run for fun?”
“It releases endorphins—the body’s feel-good chemical.”
He pulled a face. “I can think of plenty of other ways to make a body feel good that don’t require pounding the pavement for miles.”
“Oh yeah? And what is it you do for exercise?” Those hard, lean muscles certainly required a vigorous regime.
His eyebrow raised an imperceptible fraction and, oh, that crooked smile had the devil in it.
Vigorous indeed.
“Never mind.” She shot out her hand, covering his mouth. “I’ve got the picture loud and clear, Cowboy.” The gesture was meant as a joke, but his lips, warm against her skin, weren’t funny, nor were the intensely hot shivers shooting through her thighs. That wasn’t a blush heating her cheeks. It was a raging wildfire.
She leapt back and automatically moved to wipe her hand on one of the bedspread’s reclining tigers. I
nstead, she balled her hand into a fist, as if to hold his touch closer, a silly impulse. What are you doing, Eden?
Frown lines etched across his broad forehead. “You okay there, Freckles? Eat too fast? Ketchup poisoning?”
Pressure built inside her body as if she were strapped to a centrifuge and subjected to an inhuman amount of G-force. If she tried to speak it might come out all distorted and slow motion. Instead, she sneezed, a reflex whenever anxiety struck. At least it cleared her head. “I’m not sure what came over me, probably stress.” She made a show of pressing her fingers to her temples and rubbing in a gingerly fashion.
What kind of head case was . . . was . . . aroused by a stranger the day she absconded from her own wedding? Mother’s former psychotherapist could have a field day with her neuroses. Hey, maybe she didn’t love Reggie, and accepted his proposal with her head rather than her heart. But never again. If she ever considered another relationship, and that was a big if—huge!—then it would be to the right man, for the right reasons.
“Riddle me this,” he said gently. “What’s the plan after getting to Brightwater?”
“What do you mean?” she mumbled, blinking at the chilled-out lions and then back to him.
“Your next steps.”
Figure out how to be happy? She smoothed back her hair and searched for the right words. “I’ve been running from myself for a long time. It’s always been easier to try and fly under the radar, that keeps everyone who matters pleased and let’s everyone else forget about me. But it’s time to figure out what I want.”
“And what is it that you . . . want?” His gaze dropped to her mouth and she fought the urge to lick her lips, or move, even a fraction of an inch. She almost succeeded, except there could be no hiding the rapid rise and fall of her rib cage.
“I’m not sure,” she whispered. “I’ve always liked baking and am pretty good at it.”
“A nice hobby,” her mother used to say with a tone of dismissal. After all, heiresses host dinner parties, they don’t hang out in the kitchen kneading bread with the staff.