I pull into a truck stop outside Ventura to gas up and grab a bag of mixed nuts to snack on. Heading back into the parking lot, I see a woman standing next to her car looking a bit distressed. She’s on her phone talking animatedly, so I stand at a distance and watch her. She’s attractive – long brown hair that falls halfway down her back, and a nice figure. I watch as she hangs up her phone and tosses it through the open window onto her passenger seat. She brings her hand up to her forehead and looks down at the hood of her car.
I remember something Mom used to say about doing good whenever we’re able and no act of kindness ever being wasted. Still, I’m a single guy and she’s alone. I don’t want to freak her out. I decide to walk over and see if she needs help. Just in case.
“Hey, there. I’m Jack. You look a bit upset. Anything I can do to help?”
“Uh. Hey. Hi. Yeah. Well, I think my car overheated. At least that’s what the dial thing on the dash says. It went over on H for hot and then some steam or smoke started coming out of the hood. I called a friend and he said it sounds like I might need to get the engine looked at. I’m not from around here, so it’s a little inconvenient.” She moves her hands to emphasize her words, and I surprise myself when I realize I’m thinking she looks adorable when she does that.
I tell her, “I’m not from around here either. Do you mind if I take a look under your hood – of your car?”
“Sure. Yeah. Yes. That would actually be good. But, do you know what you’re looking for?” She looks a bit skeptical.
“Well, I know my basic way around an engine. I worked on cars with my dad growing up. Just our cars, not professionally or anything. I know what I’m looking for when an engine overheats. Is your gauge to cool yet? If not, we need to wait.” She walks to the driver door and looks in.
“Yes. It’s half-way down from cool right now. Is that good?” I notice her accent sounds like she grew up somewhere in the South. Not a Californian native, for sure.
I lean around the hood. “Yeah. That should be fine.”
“Ok. Let me pop the hood for you. Thanks a lot.” She reaches in and pulls the latch.
I look her in the eyes and smile, “No problem.”
I lift the hood and assess the block for cracks. Then I make sure the oil cap is on tight. I check the coolant level and the hoses. About halfway through my inspection, she comes and stands next to me looking in as though she knows what she’s seeing. Of course, a woman can be anything she wants, and that includes a mechanic, but it’s obvious this woman is not anything close to one, so her joining me gives me a little smile.
I step back. “Everything looks good. Nothing seems to have cracked. Your hoses are in good condition. All your fluids are full enough. It probably just needs to sit and completely cool and then you’re good to go. I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”
“Oh, I’m Katrina. Thanks again. You were a lifesaver.” She looks me in the eyes. Hers are brown and warm and convey a spirited determination and possibly a spark of passion. I’m pretty sure she’s not like any woman I’ve met in the past few years.
chapter three
Katrina
I can’t believe my rental car overheated. Now this total stranger named Jack is offering to help me out. He’s leaning over, looking under the hood trying to see what’s wrong. I stand a little closer to Jack, as though I know a fan belt from a carburetor. I just don’t want him to get the impression that I’m a bimbo who needs a man to step in and rescue her.
I can’t help but notice how he smells woodsy, like cinnamon and pine. Something warm and welcoming. Not like Thomas. Thomas always smelled like a cologne a man would wear when he was trying hard to be something he wasn’t. He smelled pretentious and eager. That smell should have been a warning to me. But, what do I know? Thomas seemed solid at first.
Just because a man smells like a campfire and a warm cup of tea doesn’t mean he isn’t an axe murderer. Maybe that’s why Jack smells like the woods. He may have been burying bodies somewhere, and now here he is bending over the engine of my car trying to diagnose what’s broken.
Jack lifts his head from under the hood and tells me it just needs to sit a little while. He asks me my name. I tell him and then ask how long the car needs to sit. I’m trying not to look like a complete idiot. He tells me, “About an hour. Have you eaten? I need to eat lunch, and if you haven’t, I could keep you company while the engine cools and then check it again before you take off. Just figuring I could hang around to help.”
That doesn’t sound like an offer an axe murderer would make, unless he’s trying to lower my defenses before he throws me into his trunk. Oh goodness, Kat. Get a grip. This truck stop has eyes everywhere. You are probably safe eating a burger with the man.
“Sure. That sounds good. Let me just grab my purse and I’ll meet you inside.”
I shoot a quick text off to Patrice, in case, you know, I go missing after lunch with a handsome stranger. Then I head to the women’s restroom to wash up. I stare at myself in the mirror over the sinks. My mind starts wandering to thoughts about Jack’s eyes. He has the warmest hazel eyes. His voice has the tone of syrup and butter melting over a stack of pancakes. I must be hungry. Starved actually.
As I join Jack at the counter to place my order, I silently chant my mantra like a monk at vespers: No men, no men, no men … What am I doing? I don’t need my resolve right now. I’m never going to see this man again. He’s just helping me with my lemon of a rental car. This is just a one-time lunch with a stranger. Nothing more.
A teen behind the counter asks, “What can I get you?”
“Um. A plain cheeseburger with lettuce and a large iced tea.” I guess it isn’t plain if you count the whitish slice of iceberg, but that’s a technicality. Jack orders a chicken sandwich. I stand by the counter waiting for our food while he heads over to the soda dispenser and then comes back. We take our trays to a table in the center of the dining room of the truck stop. I’m glad we’re out in the open – safety first and all.
“So, what brings you to this area, Kat?” Should I answer him? Well, I can hit a gas pedal as fast as any girl I know, and I can scream pretty loudly too, so if he pulls anything funny, I have my defenses ready. Of course, I might have to scratch the idea of driving fast as that might be part of what led to the engine overheating. I can still scream though – like an old Hollywood horror star.
He’s looking at me with a question mark in his eyes, so I decide to answer. “I was shooting a wedding. As a photographer, not with a gun or anything. And it wasn’t a real wedding. I mean, it was a fake wedding for a venue.”
Jack chuckles. Oh. Good gravy. This right here – my mouth that flows like a hot volcano of craziness – this is one reason I don’t date, and man-fasts are the very best invention since mint chip ice cream. Actually man-fasts with mint chip are even better.
“So, you shot a wedding, and …” He wants more of the mental mayhem that happens when I open my mouth? Okay. He asked for it.
“Well, see, the venue wants pictures to use for their website, ads, and promos to couples. Weddings are big business, you know. So they hire fake brides and grooms – actors or models, or random beautiful bridezillas, as was the case this week – and they have them pose all day as though they were getting married. Kiss and all.”