A tongue licks my palm, and I realize with a start that I still have my hand on the gray horse. I step back, wiping my palm on my dress. Dr. Tully finishes up at the pump and heads toward his driver’s side door.
“Good luck fixing her.”
He nods and hops into his truck, peeling out of the gas station and leaving me with the two guys.
I keep my back to them as I walk back to my pump, but then out of my periphery, I see the stranger’s friend waving to get my attention.
“Hey miss, could you tell us where we are? My maps app isn’t working.”
This guy clearly knows you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar. He’s flashing me a big friendly smile, and though he didn’t say please, his tone was friendly enough.
“Pine Hill.”
“No shit?” He looks to his friend. “That’s great. We’re not far then. We’re supposed to be heading to this address.” He looks down at his phone and rattles it off for me before glancing up again, hopeful. “Have you heard of it?”
I shake my head and point him toward the gas station store. “Head in there. Sheryl might know.”
“Thanks,” he says, tipping his head to me before he follows my instructions.
I’m left on my own with Tall, Dark, and Handsome. And boy, is he tall. Tall enough to be one of those basketball players everyone can’t shut up about. I hum under my breath. Wouldn’t that be interesting? Looking like that and playing professional basketball? I wonder how many hearts lie at his feet.
At the pump, I check to see if my ten dollars has somehow magically stretched into enough money to fill my whole tank. All the while, I think I feel the stranger’s eyes on me, but when I glance over at him from beneath my lashes, he’s busy swiping his credit card. I make myself busy too.
I check the screen on the pump, annoyed to see my transaction ended two cents shy of ten dollars. I know it’s not much. Two cents will likely only get me one more drop of gas, but that one drop could be the difference between making it back home or sleeping on the side of the road one night. I jostle the trigger of the gas nozzle, trying to get it pumping again.
“Come on, you stupid thing,” I say.
I want that last drop of black gold, and I don’t have time to head in and argue with Sheryl about it. Sure, I didn’t have time to feed that horse an apple and scowl at random men either, yet here I am, running late and wanting my gas—all of it.
I look up to find the stranger watching me again.
He’s leaning back against his car without a care in the world, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His head’s turned in my direction, and when I catch him looking, he doesn’t have the decency to look away.
“It owes me two cents more gas,” I explain, as if that will make me look less crazy.
He opens his mouth to say something, but then his friend bounds out of the store.
We both turn to watch him approach.
“We’re saved!” he shouts. “I know where to go! We’re not stuck here!”
The stranger looks to me, and then his friend follows suit.
“No offense,” he tacks on for my benefit.
I roll my eyes and give up on my gas, returning the nozzle to the pump. I might not like this town any more than they do, but I grew up here, so I’m allowed to make fun of it. They aren’t.
I slide into the front seat of my nan’s car and glance back at them in the rearview mirror as I pull away. Welcome to town, jerks. I hope you learn some manners while you’re here.
Chapter Three
Ben
“Damn. Did you get a look at that blonde girl back at the gas station?” Anthony asks.
“No,” I lie.
I catch his grin in my periphery.
Anthony shakes his head. “Almost made me sad we figured out the directions. I’d be just fine going wherever she was headed.”
When I don’t respond, he plows right on.
“Would you mind U-turning and heading back? She might still be there. I could get her number.”
Finally, I bite. “Are you done?”
His grin widens. “You’re telling me you didn’t even register her?”
“We’re here for three weeks,” I remind him, ignoring his question.
“Almost four weeks, actually. That’s plenty of time.”
I purposely turn up the radio as we continue driving down the highway.
He trudges right on, raising his voice over the music. “If all the girls in Texas look like that…maybe I’d be okay getting traded to the Spurs or the Mavs.”
“I know what you’re doing.”
He wipes a hand down his face. “Whatever. Would it kill you to get back out there? Date a woman? Look at one for Christ’s sake? It’s been—”
“I know how long it’s been.” My tone could slice through steel.
He points his thumb through the back windshield. “That blonde back there…she was fucking beautiful, and if you didn’t notice, well”—he shrugs—“maybe there isn’t hope for you after all.”
I glare over at him, regretting that I let him ride with me from the airport. He would have been fine walking. It would have taken him a few days, and maybe with all of that time, he would have come to his senses and learned to keep his nose out of my business.
Of course I noticed the blonde at the gas station. That girl was pure sunshine. Spun-gold hair, mile-long legs, blue eyes that punched right through my fog of indifference.
Right off the bat, she didn’t like something about me. That much was clear. Her scowl was plain to see, though it didn’t do all that much to warn me away from her. Maybe she would have looked more intimidating if she weren’t hand-feeding that horse looking like a damn Disney princess.
I met her scowl with one of my own, but not for the reasons she probably thinks.
I was confused—no, utterly dumbstruck by her as soon as I slid out of my car and met her gaze.
My stomach squeezed tight as she stared on, not shying away, not blushing bashfully like I expected her to. She stared right at me as every hair on my body stood up, taking notice of her.
Her, my body screamed.
HER.
Fuck. Am I an idiot for not asking for her name? Her number? Something?
What if I never meet someone who elicits that response again?
It’s not an outlandish concern. It’s been years since I’ve felt that way about a woman—even counting Shelby. God, that’s depressing to realize.
When I eventually turn off the highway and head down a long winding dirt road, it takes us another fifteen minutes to arrive at Coach Dalton’s hideaway, and my head is no longer back with the blonde. I’m wondering what Coach has in store for us. Sequestering us here in the middle of nowhere isn’t exactly common practice. I played in the last Olympic Games and we trained at Lebron’s place in Miami for a few weeks before heading to Rio. Everyone stayed in rentals or hotels.
“This feels like summer camp,” Anthony notes, pointing to the small modern cabins interspersed among the trees.
“You went to summer camp?”
“Oh sure. My mom dropped me off every year on her way to a yoga retreat.”
I chuckle, knowing he’s full of shit. Anthony and I share a similar story—no story-book childhoods for us and no family to speak of now. My mom died when I was young and I’ve fully cut ties with my dad. I’ve known for a long time that he was a user. Someone who’ll suck the life right out of you if you let him. Yesterday, I got a call from my agent asking me why I was selling my old basketball memorabilia online. When I told him I wasn’t, he sent me the link to the website. The usual stuff was listed, some signed game balls and NBA rookie cards, but alongside those were trophies from my youth basketball league tournaments, cheap medals, grainy childhood photos with signatures my dad must have forged. Items I didn’t even know he had. Items I would have liked to keep if he’d offered them to me.