Page 16 of The Wrong Drive

I purse my lips. “I’d have to look at my phone…I don’t remember it.”

“Mm,” he mutters, turning his attention back to the stove. Disappointment rattles my chest at his reaction—like it bothers him I don’t know. But why would he care? Why doIcare?

“The visibility started to suck when I turned onto this road,” I clarify, grabbing his attention again. “And my GPS told me I had twelve miles to go when I turned off the highway. It froze, and I couldn’t get it to reload. I somehow ended up in the wrong driveway.”

“There’s no houses on this road,” he says, setting the tongs down on the counter, angling his body to me. “The GPS had to have been leading you to the wrong place. It’s not reliable out here. Your boyfriend should’ve known that.” It’s the most he’s said since I arrived, and I find myself lost in the deep, commanding tone, my body reacting in a way that Idon’tlike.

I swallow it and tighten my quads beneath the table. “I don’t know. I just copied and pasted the address from his text.”

He nods, shrugging to himself. “Strange.”

Yeah, so is this.I take another deep breath and scan the walls, noticing how bare they are. There’s not a picture in sight, but he’s also an assumably single man living alone. No bachelor pad is ever impressive, but it does prompt me to take a risk.

“What’s your name?” I ask, my heart leaping to my throat. “We never really, um, introduced ourselves and since?—”

“Turner,” he cuts me off before I start to ramble. He doesn’t offer up a last name, and I don’t press. Or maybe Turnerishis last name? I don’t know.

“I’m Em.”

“Emersyn,” he corrects me, and continues at my shocked expression. “I saw it on your driver’s license.”

“Right,” I breathe out a sigh, trying to settle my fraying nerves again. “Most people call me Em.”

“Okay.”

Fuck me, this is awkward.I’m just as miserable as I am scared, and I let my mind run in the moment.What would I be doing had I made it to Adam?I frown at the thought.We’d probably be fighting, and I’d be begging for the snow to clear so I could leave.

How fucking ironic.

But at least I’d be safe. I steal a glance back at Turner, who’s expression is downcast suddenly. Is he…upset?I can’t tell, but he has a distant look on his face as he seems to go through the motions of finishing the food.Should I keep talking?I brush my hair out of my face. Why do I always need to keep talking?

“I haven’t ever been stuck in a blizzard like this,” I say, clearing my throat as he reaches into the cabinet, grabbing a couple of plates.

“You’ll be stuck in another one in a couple days.” He sets a steak on either plate, and then splits the mixed vegetables between them. “We’re supposed to get multiple rounds of snow.”

“Guess I might be here for Christmas,” I chuckle.

He shrugs, and then picks up the plates and brings them to the table. He doesn’t sit down though. He returns to the kitchen and grabs two waters, forks, and knives. His movements are almostnervous? It’s hard to read him as he sets everything down and then pulls out the chair across from me.

“Do you have family around here?”

He stares at his plate, freezing at the question. “No.” He shakes his head in a quick succession, and then begins to eat.

My hands still tremble as I retrieve the utensils and cut into the steak. “I don’t like the holidays all that much anymore.” Idon’t know why my mouth is still moving, but I’m desperate to make friends—or something.

“Yeah, happens.” He forks a bite of broccoli into his mouth.

I nod, following suit. “Thank you for dinner,” I say, swallowing.

He looks across the table at me, holding my gaze long enough for my heart to skip a few beats. “You’re welcome, Em.” His voice drops when he says my nickname, I hang on it, staring at his mouth.

I roll my lips together. “What do you like to do for fun?”

“I don’t have fun,” he chuckles, his knife slicing through the meat as he pauses. “But I used to do a lot of things.”

“Yeah?” I don’t press as to why he doesn’t have fun anymore. I just focus on what he’ll give me—like I read once in a book about a woman surviving a serial killer. Not that Turner is one. But hecouldbe. “What did you do?”

“I liked to work out a lot,” he says, shrugging.

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