When I return a few minutes later, Max is sitting in the passenger seat with his eyes closed. I don’t want to notice that the skin above his five o’clock shadow is smooth, or that his lips are plump, or that his jaw is strong and bears a small bean-shaped birthmark on the left side, but in a ten-second visual sweep of his profile, it’s hard not to. If I’m a little disoriented when I try to fit my key in the ignition, it’s only because I’ve been driving for nearly two hours and the trip’s taken a toll on me. And when I turn the key and nothing happens, it must be because I’m hallucinating.
Max turns his head and peeks at me with one eye. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s not starting. Not even cranking.” I peer at the dashboard. “No lights, either.”
He sits up and surveys the dashboard, as though his set of eyes will help solve a mystery that’s already been solved. “Battery’s dead.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
He points a scolding finger at me. “You’re the one who insisted on taking the banana cab for its last hurrah, so don’t get snippy with me, woman.”
And just like that, the truce is over.
I caress the dash and steering wheel, begging my car to wake up. “Come on, baby. We just need to go a few more miles and then we can get you checked out.”
Max groans. “This is ridiculous.” He climbs out of the car and whips out his phone.
I climb out as well and stare at him over the roof of the car. “Who are you calling?”
“A tow service. Got a better idea?”
I scrunch my brows at him. “We can just get a jump. I do it all the time.”
He lifts his chin and narrows his eyes at me. “I thought you said the car was sound. How many times have you gotten a jump?”
What does it matter? And why is he interrogating me? I shrug. “Three times, maybe? It’s really no big deal. Most manufacturers only recommend battery replacement after six or seven jumps.”
He puckers his lips in disbelief. “That’s not true.”
“Well, it should be.”
“For someone who plans everything, you’re pretty lax about car maintenance.”
“Car maintenance requires money, and I’m not rolling around in a bed full of cash, okay? Besides, I do maintain this car. I just thought the battery had a few more lives left.”
He smacks his forehead. “Okay, never mind. Let’s find someone with a working battery.”
Hands on his hips, he spins around, searching for a person who can give us a jump. The only problem is, we haven’t seen anyone drive past us in the ten minutes we’ve been parked at this stop.
After a few minutes of waiting in silence, I admit defeat. “I’ll call a tow.”
He widens his eyes and throws up his hands. “That’s a brilliant idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Your sarcasm lacks imagination,” I say, the phone at my ear. “You need to kick it up several notches.”
He rolls his eyes at me. For someone who claims to be inherently low-key, he sure does hit all his high notes around me.
“Just get a tow, okay,” he says. “In the meantime, I’ll pop the hood and take a look. Make sure there isn’t something else going on.”
He untucks his blue button-down and unfastens it, slowly revealing the white T-shirt underneath.
My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. “What are you doing?”
The customer representative on the other end of the line clears his throat. “Excuse me?”
Shit. “Sorry,” I say into the phone. “I was talking to someone else.”
Max cocks his head at me, his eyes flickering with amusement. “I’m not going under that hood without taking this off. I don’t want to mess it up.”
“I’ll do it, then,” I whisper. “My shirt’s black, so even if I mess it up, no one will be able to tell.”
He ignores my offer. “You’re making the call. I’m looking under the hood.” Then he slips out of the shirt, opens the passenger door, and carefully drapes the shirt on the front seat.
Ugh. It’s the return of Hartley the Hottie. I’m entertaining inappropriate thoughts about the man who would have been my brother-in-law, and it’s making me crabby. I grimace at the enticing view, compelled to lash out at the person who’s suddenly got me rattled. “Why are you just standing there? Will you get under the hood already? Chop, chop.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” he grumbles. “There’s no need to be so rude. Sheesh.”
He stomps off, and I find myself peering at his back to see if he’s ripped there, too.
Dammit. He is.
* * *
“Yep, battery’s dead,” the tow truck operator—“TJ” per his nameplate—tells us. “But you’re in luck. I can tow it to my shop, call around for a new battery, and get that sucker in by tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning!” Max and I shout in unison.
TJ takes off his baseball cap and wipes his brow. “Well, yeah. We’re not in the District, Dorothy and Toto. There isn’t a parts distributor on the next corner. Hell, there are no corners round here. And it is a 2002 Volvo.”
“We can hire a Lyft,” Max says.
TJ laughs. “Good luck with that. This isn’t exactly hired car service country, either. Most people have trucks. Or their own cars. Plus, you’ll need to get your vehicle in the morning.”
This trip will be a total bust if I don’t make our appointment, so I’m determined to at least accomplish that. As for the rest, I’ll deal with it later. “TJ, we’re heading to Surrey Lane Farm. According to Google Maps, it’s only 2.7 miles away. Can you take us there before you tow my car to your shop?”
He throws his cap back on. “I’d be happy to.”
“Do I get a say in what we do from here?” Max asks. “Considering I’m the one being inconvenienced by your failure to prepare for the high probability of a breakdown?”
I shake my head at him. “Nope. You just used up all your pão de queijo points. Sorry.” As I climb into TJ’s truck, I hear the unmistakable grumbling sounds of a pissed-off Max behind me. That’s music to my petty ears.
* * *
Surrey Lane Farm boasts the kinds of pastures and lush fields I’d expect to see in B-roll movie footage. With the Blue Ridge Mountains in the background, the farm’s picturesque views are, in a word, breathtaking. My clients, who are planning to renew their vows, spent a weekend here for a couples retreat when they were experiencing problems in their marriage. They feel a sentimental attachment to the place, and now that they’ve decided to rededicate themselves to their relationship, they’d like to host their celebration where their second chance began.
Max and I are squeezed into the cab of a pickup truck as we tour the acres and acres of land reserved for sustainable farming and raising livestock. Hannah, our guide and the farm’s resident event planner, handles the uneven terrain like a pro; my ass, however, is handling it like an amateur. Worse, my thigh and Max’s are pressed so tightly together we might as well strap a rope around them and run a three-legged race. Earlier today I made a mental checklist of questions to ask Hannah, but with each bump in the dirt road, my body’s tossed against Max’s and I can’t recall any of them. Each time my soft parts connect with his hard parts, I’m tempted to groan.