Page 4 of Messy Match

As I merge onto I-91, a car cuts us off, and I brake hard, my arm shooting out automatically to brace her as a foul curse explodes from my mouth. The physical contact is the first since that New Year’s Eve night. And for a second, neither of us moves. The bare skin of Charlotte’s chest, above the dipping curve of her tank top, is warm under my palm. I’m hit instantly with the searing memory of how she felt pressed against me on the dance floor before it all went wrong.

“I’m fine,” she insists, but her unsteady tone, betrays her. “You don’t have to—”

“Force of habit.” I withdraw my arm slowly, fingertips dragging across her collarbone and testing the limits of whatever this is between us.

She squirms in her seat and clears her throat, but when she speaks again, her snarky tone has returned. “Funny how I’vesurvived twenty-something years of New York cab rides with only a seatbelt.”

I can’t help it. “Just think of me as a premium safety feature, sweetheart.”

Charlotte stills, likely from the endearment, one I’ve never uttered before. But we’ve always been in mixed company until now. And I can't help but throw her a curveball every now and then.

Though I kept my voice intentionally nonchalant, she pins me with a frosty glare. “Believe it or not, I don’t need your sculpted arm as an airbag, Maddingly. Unless you’re practicing a new pickup strategy. What happened? Did the shirtless calendar pose stop working on all the ladies?”

“Trust me, Harris,” I reply, arching a brow and barely refraining from confirming she just described my arm assculpted. “If I was trying to get my hands on you, you’d know.”

She swallows, the graceful curve of her neck drawing my eye as her pulse jumps beneath delicate skin. A crimson flush creeps up from beneath her tank top, unfurling across her chest. She shifts in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her long legs as if she can’t get comfortable, and I have to force my attention back to the road before I do something stupid.

A minute later, I risk another glance in her direction. Her fingers are twisting at the frayed edge of her shorts. I catch her reflection in the passenger window, only to find she’s nibbling on her lower lip. Maybe, I’m not the only one affected by this cramped space.

The tension in the car continues as we settle into silence again. A hundred or so miles later, we cross into Vermont. The rolling hills that stretch for miles are covered in more shades of green than I can name. The golden afternoon sun is still high above the horizon when I spot a car off to the side of the road, hazardsblinking. A closer look reveals an elderly woman standing partway up a bank, glancing anxiously down the road.

Charlotte clicks her tongue but remains silent as I signal to pull over, the tires drumming over the rumble strips. I throw the car in park, just waiting for the snarky comment about my stopping to help, but it doesn’t come.

Within minutes, I’ve met a distraught Margaret, who’s on her way to visit her brother in the hospital. She’s got a left rear flat, which I’ve assured her I can change. I get to work, the hot rubber burning my palms as I wrench the lug nuts free. The muscles in my back strain as I position the jack, and sweat trickles down my spine. While I work, Charlotte joints Margaret on the bank. They hit it off immediately, because of course, they do. Charlotte assures the older woman that she’ll be back on her way shortly. I bite back a smile, pleased to hear her faith in my abilities.

As I work, I don’t miss the way my passenger’s gaze flickers over at me, watching as I muscle the spare tire into place, my shirt sticking to my chest as I tighten the bolts.

“You two are so kind,” Margaret says when I’m finished, my hands streaked with grease and dirt. “And make such a lovely young couple.”

“Oh, we’re not—” Charlotte starts.

“Just friends,” I finish curtly, though that’s not quite right, either. We’ve never really been friends. We went straight from instant attraction to whatever this mess is, without passing Go.

“Well, let me pay you then, please.”

“No, ma’am,” I reply, waving off her suggestion. “I’m happy to help.”

“And now, you can go see your brother. I hope he recovers from that fall,” Charlotte adds.

After we see off Margaret and return to the car, the silence feels different. Heavier somehow. Charlotte keeps glancing atme from the corner of her eye as I wipe my hands on the rag Margaret insisted I take from her trunk.

“That was nice,” Charlotte begrudgingly admits. “What you did back there.”

“Don’t strain yourself with the compliments.”

“I mean it.” She turns to face me. “You’re…” she trails off, shaking her head.

“I’m what?”

“Nothing.” She reaches for her script again. “We should get moving. We’re nearly there.”

But as I pull back onto the interstate, Charlotte’s crossing and uncrossing her legs again, unaware of how the simple movement draws my eye every single time. I'm in for a long weekend of pretending I don’t notice every little thing she does.

“Do you need me to pull over at the next rest stop?” I ask, eyeing the empty iced coffee in the cupholder.

“What?” Her brow is furrowed. “Oh, no,” she adds, following my gaze. “I’m fine.”

She shifts in her seat again, opening her mouth then closing it before finally blurting out, “Maybe, we should declare a temporary ceasefire.”

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