Page 2 of Take Me, Tex

"Thought so." I shift my stance, boots crunching on the gravel. "My old truck wouldn’t survive if I tried to tow you the hour back to town. And even if it could, no one would be able to look at it until next week—and they’d charge you a fortune.”

She sighs. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

“I can tow you back to my place and look at it myself. I’m a decent mechanic. I’ll call the auto-parts store in the morning for whatever parts I need, and I’ll fix it for free."

She hesitates, and I can practically see the wheels turning behind her eyes. Her teeth worry her lower lip, and she glances from me to Whiskey to the darkening sky.

I don't blame her. Stranger in the woods. Big guy with a big dog. If I were her, I'd think twice too.

“Why would you do that?”

I shrug. “It’s a good thing y’all do, bringing books and movies up to the mountain people.”

She looks at my face—reallylooks, like she's reading something written there in the lines around my eyes and the set of my shoulders. Her eyes drift to Whiskey wagging her tail beside me, tongue lolling out in her friendly doggy grin.

And then she gives a tight nod, her shoulders squaring with decision.

“All right," she says, her voice steadier now. "But if you turn out to be a serial killer, I'm warning you… I will haunt you forever."

The dry humor in her tone makes me chuckle, a sound that rumbles up from my chest. "Fair enough."

I head for my truck, already mentally cataloging what I'll need to get her van secured for the night and wondering why the thought of this woman spending the weekend on my mountain doesn't bother me nearly as much as it should.

Chapter 2

Nora

Iwassupposedtobe back in town an hour ago.

One last stop on my first official solo book route—a triumphant circuit through the mountain communities with my carefully organized inventory of paperbacks and audiobooks—then a long drive home with my reward cinnamon roll from Murphy's Bakery and a smug sense of accomplishment.

But no. Instead, my bookmobile is being towed up a gravel road that seems to climb straight into the clouds, by a man built like a survivalist lumberjack and his very good dog.

The man—Tex—drives a beat-up Chevy that somehow still manages to look powerful and dependable. The truck's interiorsmells like worn leather and pine air freshener, with an undertone of motor oil and something masculine that I can't quite place but that makes my pulse quicken. The dog is seated between us, a sweet, scruffy mutt named Whiskey who licks my arm to demand pets.

How’d I get myself into this mess?

The truck rocks gently as we climb, and I try not to have a meltdown.

Or a crush.

Which would be easier if Tex wasn't a walking fantasy in faded jeans that hug his thighs just right, and a thermal shirt the color of charcoal with sleeves shoved up over his forearms. Those forearms are a work of art, corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair, his hands strong on the steering wheel. His jaw is shadowed with a dark beard that looks like it would scratch in all the best ways, and when he glances at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes are the color of storm clouds.

Ugh. Nora. Get a grip.

The truck's engine hums steadily as we climb, and through the open windows, I can smell the mountain evening coming alive—pine sap and cool earth, the green scent of moss and ferns, and somewhere in the distance, the faint smokiness of a campfire.

When we finally pull up to his cabin, I blink in surprise.

It's... cozy.

Not in the Pinterest way, with distressed wood signs and mason jar lighting. There are no fairy lights or artfully arranged throw pillows or color-coded bookshelves. But it's clean and solid, built from honey-colored logs that glow in the fading light. Smoke curls from a stone chimney, carrying the rich scent of burning oak. There's a heavy wooden porch swing that creaks softly in the evening breeze, and the whole place is surrounded by the kind of deep, comfortable quiet that makes you want towhisper. I can hear water running somewhere nearby, probably a creek, and the soft rustle of leaves in the wind.

Tex hops out, his boots hitting the gravel with a solid thunk, and unhooks the chain from my van. "We'll leave it here for now," he says, his voice carrying easily in the still air. "I'll check it out in the morning before the auto-parts store opens."

"Thank you. I’m just going to get my bag," I say, walking toward the bookmobile. I reach inside to grab my massive tote from the pile of library supplies. The canvas feels rough under my palms, and I'm grateful for my librarian habit of overpacking. I don’t have spare clothes, unfortunately, but there’s deodorant, toothpaste, and a travel-sized toothbrush tucked into a side pocket.Be prepared for anything,Miss Ada warned me when I took the job.

Though I doubt she could have predicted I’d be stranded with a man who looks like he stepped off the cover of a romance novel.

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