Page 6 of Loathe at First Sight

A crack of thunder in the distance startles me, and I know I need to work fast. Just when I think I’ve located the bag that they may be in, the sky opens up, and rain starts pouring on my head.

“Of course,” I mutter under my breath. Looking up, I yell, “Anything else you want to throw at me? Any way you could make this day any worse?”

It becomes abundantly clear that the universe accepts my challenge…and has a very sick sense of humor.

A large black tow truck pulls up behind me. Without even looking at the writing on the door, I know exactly what it says.

Jack’s Auto Shop.

How do I know that?

Because that’s just my luck.

I hear the sound of the door shutting, but I don’t look back. I know this man is about to make me eat a giant helping of crow.

“Well, well, well,” I hear his deep voice say. “Do you need some help, princess?”

That gets me to turn around.

“What’s with the princess? Do I look like a damsel in distress?” I ask.

When he starts to open his mouth, I hold my hand up to stop him. “Don’t answer that. I may look a little down on my luck right now, but I’m fine. I’m going to walk into town.”

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he looks around. “You’re going to walk? Do you know how much of a pain in the ass that’s going to be on these roads? Plus, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s raining.”

“A little rain never killed anyone,” I tell him.

“Except maybe the wicked witch,” he quips.

“Am I a witch or a princess? I’m not sure you can have it both ways.”

He smiles. “Jury’s still out.”

I see what Ronnie was talking about. He’s cute…if you’re into the whole lumberjack thing. Not sure that burly, bearded, and covered in flannel is my type, but I can see why other people may like it.

We both stare at each other for what seems like forever, locked in a silent battle of wits. Neither one of us wanting to break first.

Finally, my steely stare must wear him down. Breaking eye contact, he says, “Look, it’s raining. I know that you and I don’t see eye to eye, but why don’t you let me give you some gas? Then, you can get on your way, and I can know I didn’t leave a woman stranded on the side of the road.”

“I should let you help me so that you feel better?”

He runs his hand over his dark beard. “I’m just trying to be nice. A little bit of gas, and you can get me out of your hair.”

I’m well aware that at this moment, I sound like an ungrateful brat. I can hear myself. But I have gotten enough of people’s pity over the past year. I don’t need any more of it.

“You won’t get out of my hair if I say no?”

“Look, my mother raised me to try to help whenever I could and to look out for women—even ones that I may not agree with. If you insist on walking, then, I’m just going to have to walk with you to make sure you don’t get hurt.”

Oh, good grief.

“Are you serious?” I ask.

“As a heart attack.”

I think for a moment. I can either swallow a little of my pride and let him give me some gas, or I can spend the next several hours walking into town with him. He may pose as the good guy, but what if he’s a serial murderer or something?

“Okay, fine. A little bit of gas would be nice.”

---