“He’s an ice hockey player for the River City Renegades. A good guy, but he’s had a few hurdles lately.” There’s a lull in the conversation when I hear a beep, signaling another incoming call on his end. “Hey, Riley, sorry, but I need to take this call, too. But look, I’m right by the bookshop. I’ll be around so I can say hi before I head over to Mom and Dad’s, okay?”
“Sure, but why…” The click in my ear tells me that even though I’m not done, Travis is.
Sighing, I throw myself against the back of the seat, watching the scenery of this quaint small town I live in breeze past.
The sidewalks are decorated with cheerful flower baskets, bursting with vibrant hues that mirror the warmth of the locals here. Antique lamp posts are adorned with ribbons of greenery and swathed with fabric reflecting the season. Since it’s the end of March, the decorating committee has done a pastel green to celebrate both St. Patrick’s Day and Easter, allowing for a double-dip and giving them a break. At night, the lamps cast a soft glow, creating an enchanting atmosphere on our main street.
Passing by a row of boutiques, I spot the signs for the Sweetkiss Creek Spring Fair, which is coming up in a few months. Another one of my mom’s many pies that her fingers are solidly planted in. To say she’s an integral part of the community is like saying George Washington was kinda the first President. She’s the type of woman who runs a business with my father and has herself spread thin across committees and community groups, helping out and leading the charge to keep Sweetkiss Creek the amazing place it is to live now.
She’s a bit of a legend, with her friends all relying on her to do things, but for us at home, she can be a bit of a dictator. Even Dad can’t escape some days, but he’ll always tell us she means well.
When the car begins decelerating for a stop light, I come out of my tourist haze in the backseat of this stranger’s car and realize we’ve gotten off-path. If this guy is going to try to make money driving around a Hitch, he’d better get a map is all I gotta say.
“Hey, sorry to be a backseat driver, but you’re going the wrong way.” When I lean forward to tap him on his shoulder, he jumps at the same time a sound emits from the passenger seat that’s low and rumbly and a lot like growling.
Glancing down, I cry out when I see a row of teeth bared in my direction. Tossing myself as far back as I can go without entering the trunk, I clutch my bag.
“What is that? Is it supposed to be in your car?”
“It’s my dog,” he answers flatly. “And yes, Posh is allowed to be inmycar.”
“Posh?” Angling myself around so I’m behind the dog’s seat, I get a better view of my no-personality driver. He’s huge, and now that I’m paying attention, he looks really funny stuffed behind the steering wheel of a Fiat. Judging from his size, I guess he’s easily over six feet tall. And he’s not hard on my eyes either, his jawline so perfect that calling it chiseled feels trite. His side profile is a study of sculpted masculinity, and I’m kinda drawn to the rugged vibe he’s got going on. There’s a hint of stubble on his chin and cheeks, but he’s fairly clean-cut.
When I start feeling a little weirded out by my own creepiness at staring at this guy, I turn my focus back to the road ahead. Not much farther to go, I see the street sign for Magnolia Lane. Flicking my eyes back in his direction, I am not seeing any movement that tells me he’s slowing down. Honestly, I have no clue if he’s seen it, and at the speed he’s going, we won’t make the turn, not without taking out the flower shop on the corner, and we can’t have that.
“Hey.” Pointing over his shoulder, I indicate in the opposite direction, the way we need to go. “That way, dude.”
A heavy sigh echoes from the front of the car and he hits the brakes. For the love of the heavens does he ever hit the brakes. As he slams his foot on the brake pedal, the whole moment feels like a dramatic stage performance rather than a routine driving maneuver. The brakes squeal in protest, the sound reminiscent of an exaggerated cartoon screech as the vehicle jolts to an abrupt halt, as if it had just realized it was the punchline to a comical joke.
The tires, caught off guard by the sudden command to cease all movement, let out a series of comical chirps, as if protesting the unexpected interruption of their forward momentum. I’m pretty sure we’ve captured the attention of anyone on the sidewalk as well as any and all of the retail shoppers in the area.
The velocity of the turn pushes me against the back door, my face planting on the window. Smooshed for the world to see as we drive through the small but fairly crowded shopping district. I’m still peeling a nostril away from the glass when Mr. Johnson, who owns the flower shop—which I just saved from full-on damage, thank you very much—waves my way.
Somewhere in the distance, a phone is ringing. It could be mine, but I have no idea where it is now. I’m also hoping the driver’s dog is okay up there and not scrunched into the glove compartment now.
“Are you kidding me?” I manage when the car finally lurches to a stop. This guy doesn’t even stop in front of the bookshop, either. “Are you new here? I said ninety-nine Magnolia Tree Lane.”
Dark eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. He cocks his head to the side and holds my gaze with an intensity that fills my gut with a heat I can’t decipher. Is it good? Is it bad? I don’t know. I’m just thankful I'm alive…but I also don’t want to pull my eyes away from his.
What is wrong with me?
My phone starts ringing again. Looking around the backseat, I find my bag where it’s landed on the floor and pull it to my lap, digging through it.
“Seriously. You and your little dog should not be in charge of chauffeuring people around.” Pointing out the window, I tap my fingernail on the glass. With animosity? Oh you bet. “This is seventy-nine Magnolia Tree Lane.”
“Well, at least you’re on the right street.” He speaks. And a second later, he also turns around, flinging one arm over the passenger seat to angle himself my way. “You know, if I was so inclined, I’d charge you extra for this trip.”
“Extra?”
“Not only did you get a tour of the town, but I threw in a little excitement, too.” There are bright golden flecks sparkling in those brown eyes of his. If I wasn’t so mad, I’d be more into it, but not now. “You seem a little pent-up.”
“Excuse me, did you say pent-up?” Huffing, I put my hand on the door handle and tug on it, hoping for some dramatic flair to match our entrance. Only, the door doesn’t open. Thinking it’s stuck, I try again, only to be met with laughter.
A soft and mechanical clink resonates in the car. This guy and his big brown eyes are still staring me down.
“Child lock,” he says with a wink.
I quirk my eyebrows. “I can see the review I’m gonna leave now. ‘One star for being a horrible driver and not very hospitable.’”
