5. Five

Five

Three hours later, Nell was discovering there was something worse than being stuck in a car with Whit O'Rourke—and that was being stuck on the side of the road with Whit O'Rourke, next to a car with a popped tire and a bent mirror that had narrowly escaped adding a deer as a hood ornament.

Although it might have been an elk. Or even a moose. Nell wasn't totally certain, since she'd squeezed her eyes shut the second Whit's sudden expletive had alerted her. One moment she'd been sipping coffee, texting Gabi—who she was also lying to—and trying not to dwell on the fact that she'd lost another point in the jackass competition thanks to an ill-timed phone call from Paige; the next, a furry, antlered creature roughly the size of Godzilla had pranced out onto the road. Whit had cursed, Nell had shrieked, then there had been a whole slamming-of-brakes, screeching-of-tires, flailing-of-arms (hers) bit that played out like a slow-motion dream sequence. The car had come to an abrupt and noisy halt. Nell's shiny new iPhone had flown out of her hand and straight into the windshield. Her cup of lukewarm gas station coffee had done a sudden flip, dumping its contents directly down her chest and soaking straight through her jacket and blouse. The deer—or whatever it actually was—had blinked once in their direction and then pranced off the road, unscathed.

All of which had brought her to her current situation: standing slumped against the hood of Whit's Audi, dressed in a sweatshirt that was way too big, chewing her fingernails down to the quick while Whit paced back and forth in front of her. She was going to have to revisit that whole under the sway of a deep and malevolent hex idea. If this most recent calamity were any indication, she was living out the Forrester family karma in real time. Curse of the cosmetics, Bambi's Revenge .

She hugged her arms against her, watching Whit as he moved. Pacing aside, he'd maintained his calm a lot better than she had. As soon as the car had stopped, he'd checked to make sure she wasn't injured, then steered them gently off to the shoulder to assess the damage. And since all of her packed clothing was dirty, he'd sifted through his own luggage and pulled out a fresh T-shirt and hoodie so that she didn't have to walk around wearing half a cup of coffee. Now he was on hold with his roadside assistance company, drumming his fingers on the side of his leg as he turned toward the stretch of pines and underbrush that nestled up against the highway.

She had to give him marks for chivalry, she supposed, plucking at the hem of the blue-and-gray Blizzards hoodie that came down past her knees. And aside from his stunt with the earbuds, he'd been on his best behavior during the drive, entertaining her with stories from when he played for Chicago and asking her about teaching. But it was still his fault they were there in the first place.

Nell sighed softly, her breath fogging in the cool air. According to Whit, they were only a few miles out of Fallen Oaks, but they might as well be on the moon for all she could make of their surroundings. The vast swathes of farmland and hay fields had gradually given way to forest as they'd made their way north, and now all she could see were clusters of towering trees, none of which actually appeared to be oaks. The wind had picked up, tugging at her clothes and hair. The air smelled like pine needles and burnt rubber. It might only be a ten minute drive into town, but it certainly felt like the middle of nowhere.

She wondered if there were bears .

Whit swung back toward her, apparently finished with his call. "You might want to wait in the car. We could be here a while."

"Define a while ," Nell said uneasily. "Because if it's another three and a half hours, I'm calling an Uber and heading straight for the airport."

If they even had Uber in the middle of nowhere.

Which, come to think of it, they probably didn't.

Maybe she could rent a dog-sled.

Whit shrugged. "They said up to forty-five minutes. Unless you feel like walking."

"Don't tempt me. If I sit too long in a stuffy car, I'll throw up."

"In that case, you definitely shouldn't wait in the car," he said as he loped around to the back of the Audi and started rearranging the trunk to access his spare tire, thrusting aside a couple of fleece blankets, a first aid kit, a set of jumper cables, about a dozen baseballs, and two large bubblegum-pink suitcases dotted with travel stickers he'd said belonged to his sister.

Nell followed him, frowning. "Forty-five minutes for the Blizzards' star pitcher? Shouldn't you get some sort of special celebrity treatment?"

"I'm not that much of a celebrity."

"We passed three billboards with your face on them."

"Around here, that usually just means I'm trying to sell you a house."

"There was a woman at the bar last night wearing your jersey," she added.

He paused in his game of suitcase Tetris to glance at her. "Just one?"

"One that I saw," she answered quickly. "I was a little distracted." Not to mention, she'd spent the majority of her time in the seedy little sports bar trying to avoid being spotted by Whit. She hadn't exactly been making a close inspection of its patrons.

Though she did have a pretty clear memory of the generously-endowed spray-tanned blonde who'd been all but sitting in Whit's lap.

Whit turned, leaning back against the car with his hands tucked into his jeans pockets and his long legs stretched out in front of him. The wind ruffled his hair, coaxing it into thick, unruly waves. With the afternoon light gleaming against his sinewy, sun-bronzed arms, she could just see the faintly puckered flesh of the crescent-shaped surgery scar that ran along his right elbow. "How did you know to find me at Gills, anyway?" he asked, tilting his head as he gazed at her.

"I didn't. I was trying to find my hotel."

"So it was just a coincidence?"

"You still think I somehow set you up?" she asked.

"I'm not ready to rule out the possibility that someone did."

"Unless that someone caused my flat tire and controls the weather, I think you're gonna have to put this one down as plain old bad luck."

"Hold up a sec," Whit said, straightening, his eyes suddenly locked on her face. "This is your second flat tire in two days?"

"This flat tire is yours, not mine."

She decided not to mention the hex.

She wasn't actually really hexed anyway.

Probably.

"But we are talking less than forty-eight hours here," Whit said. "Just to be clear."

"Why?" She peered at him suspiciously. "You're not actually going to make me walk, are you?"

"Two flat tires," he repeated, "one of which dropped you directly into my path. And then you broke your phone."

" You broke my phone. And my purse!"

Whit ignored that. He pushed himself up from the Audi and took a couple of slow strides toward her. "What you need," he said, a tiny wrinkle appearing in his brow as he looked her over with the same meticulous intensity he'd used to assess his car, "is a good luck charm."

"I was thinking more along the lines of an exorcist."

"What do you normally use?"

"For exorcisms?"

"For luck. Say you had a job interview. Or a date. I mean, you do date, right?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could lose herself yet another point in the jackass competition, Whit rubbed his chin with one hand and continued. "Don't you have some ritual you follow? A favorite shirt? Lucky underwear?"

"I don't have lucky underwear, and if I did, I definitely wouldn't tell you."

"Maybe if you did, we wouldn't be in this mess."

" I am not in any mess. I am just helping you out of yours. Which I'm seriously beginning to reconsider."

Instead of answering, he took another step toward her, and then another, until he stood only a foot or so away. With his gaze still focused on her face, he raised a hand to tug at the edge of the silver chain he wore around his neck, lifting it free from his T-shirt. The slender metal strand glinted in the chilly sunlight.

Nell had noticed the chain before but hadn't thought much of it. Paige had told her most baseball players wore a necklace or chain of some sort. It was like one of the unwritten rules of the game. Play ball? Wear chain. Many were plain, but some held crosses or other ornaments. Whit's necklace, she saw, had a small, scuffed baseball suspended from it, no larger than a nickel, complete with white cowhide exterior and tiny red stitching.

"Here," he said, holding the chain slightly—but only very slightly—away from his body. "Kiss this."

"Excuse me?" Nell asked. Partly because she wasn't certain she'd heard him right. Mostly because she was afraid she had.

"It's my good luck charm. I don't have an exorcist handy."

"You have got to be kidding me."

"Nope. I kiss it before every start."

"And do you win every start?"

"A hell of a lot more than I lose. You can check my ERA."

"I'm not checking your anything. And I am not kissing your ball."

Whit's eyebrows shot straight upward.

"Your baseball ," Nell said. "I am not kissing your baseball ."

"Why not?"

"Because it's ridiculous. And completely unhygienic."

"Afraid you'll get cooties?" he asked, like he was one of her second-graders .

"Yes," said Nell, in her most patient teacher voice. "I am afraid I'll get cooties. So put your ball back where it belongs."

"Hey, it's your bad luck."

"Tell that to Meltdown ."

"You're the source of the bad luck," he amended.

Nell crossed her arms. "If I kiss that thing, I want a point back."

"You can't negotiate points."

"Take it or leave it."

"Fine. You get a point back. Pucker up."

The fact that her pulse accelerated when he said pucker up was really just too pathetic for words, Nell thought. Especially since she had little doubt the attraction she was fighting was entirely one-sided. He'd certainly never spared her more than half a glance before this whole debacle. Whit had dated models and actresses and, well, Paige, who had definitely held the winning ticket in the Forrester-McLean genetic lottery. Even without the lingering animosity Whit must feel toward her, Nell wasn't exactly his type. Whereas tall, dark, and athletic was pretty much everyone's type. It wasn't her fault her hormones went into overdrive whenever she was in close proximity to him. It was basic biology.

And since that proximity was about to get a whole lot closer, she was just going to have to ignore the way her heart was slamming and her stomach was doing flips. Because really, the only thing more mortifying than harboring an irrational and unwelcome attraction to Whit O'Rourke would be him knowing about it.

With that thought in mind, Nell straightened her shoulders and stepped toward him. He was so tall that she was going to have to stand on her tiptoes to reach the baseball, but she had a feeling that demanding he remove the chain might fall under the category of protesting too much, so she edged slowly forward until she was close enough that she could feel the heat of his body and smell the faint tang of his skin beneath his aftershave. Telling herself not to think about how low his jeans were riding on his lean hips, or the way the wind pulling at his thin shirt perfectly outlined his chest, she lifted herself onto her toes, shut her eyes, and gave the baseball a quick, decisive peck.

"There. Happy?" she asked.

Then she made a mistake. Instead of immediately retreating, she opened her eyes and peered up at him.

And felt like she'd been hit by a truck.

Or if not a truck, at least a mid-sized sedan. Whatever it was knocked the breath right out of her lungs and set her senses reeling. A jolt of pure sexual awareness raced through her.

Whit hadn't retreated, either. He was looking right back down at her, a faint, ironic lift to one eyebrow, the corners of his mouth curved in an expression that was half smile, half smirk. Up close, she could see his eyes were starred with tiny flecks of gold. She could see the fine glisten of sweat on his collarbone, and the strong, steady tick of his pulse. He was near enough that if she angled herself forward just slightly, she'd be able to feel the soft cotton of his T-shirt beneath her fingers. Another inch or so and her thighs would brush his.

Back up. Back up, now!

Nell swallowed, every nerve in her body humming with tension. If she had any sense of self-preservation, she would turn and run. Flip whatever switch had set her instincts to fight instead of flight and dash straight off into the woods without a backward glance. Better he think she'd gone crazy than realize how desperately she was battling the awful, traitorous impulse to raise herself onto her tiptoes, curl her arm around the back of his neck, and drag his head down to hers.

Except—

Except that he hadn't moved. Not so much as a step. He was still holding the chain gently away from his chest, letting it dangle between them. His eyes were still fixed on her face. Was she only imagining it that his gaze had dipped ever-so-briefly to her lips?

Her mind flashed out a warning. Her body ignored it. He was an open flame with his bedroom eyes and sultry stare—and right now, all of that high-octane heat was aimed directly at her. She couldn't have looked away if she'd wanted to. Meeting that heavy-lidded gaze sizzled with danger and felt like a dare .

Somehow he'd gotten even closer. His free hand was touching her arm, the tips of his fingers coming to rest just below the curve of her shoulder. She closed her eyes again.

Only to open them a second later when the sudden rumble of an approaching vehicle broke whatever hazy, lust-induced trance Whit had lulled her into.

Nell took a hasty step backward and folded her arms across her chest. Good lord. The man needed to come with some kind of warning label.

"See?" said Whit, clearing his throat as he reached to tuck the chain back inside his shirt. "Good luck charm working already."

For one panicked instant, she wondered if Whit could somehow peer into her thoughts—until she turned and realized that the vehicle making its loud and lumbering way toward them wasn't a car but a battered old Chevy tow truck, its faded red paint beginning to flake, a dent in its hood the size of a bowling ball. It slowed as it passed them, pulling off onto the shoulder in front of Whit's Audi. The engine gave one final rumble as it came to a stop.

Whit's expression hardened when the driver's door opened and a man in blue coveralls stepped out. "Or maybe not." He muttered something under his breath .

Nell didn't answer. She was too busy trying not to hyperventilate. She exhaled slowly, making an attempt to get her rocketing pulse under control, and sent a little prayer to the heavens that her face didn't look as flushed as it felt. Nothing had actually happened, she told herself. That faint crackle she'd felt in the air around them had been an illusion, the product of an overactive imagination and an underactive sex life. Whit had not been about to kiss her. And she had definitely not been about to let him.

But still, if she had to be stuck on the side of the road with one of Paige's exes, why couldn't it have been Gabi?

She should have demanded hazard pay.

The thought of Paige was enough to send her crashing back down to earth. Her stomach plummeted. Guilt gnawed at her. Even if something had almost happened— and it absolutely hadn't! —she had no business letting it almost happen with Whit O'Rourke.

He was still gazing down the road at the tow truck, his hands shoved into his pockets and his jaw tightly clenched. The driver had turned, shutting the door behind him with an abrupt, decisive thud, and was now making his leisurely way toward them.

Grateful for the distraction, Nell took in a long breath of the crisp autumn air and studied the driver as he approached. He looked about thirty, give or take, with a handsome, boyish face, dark eyes and light brown skin, his crop of black hair tousled by the wind. A jagged scar ran the length of his forehead, starting just below his hairline, bisecting his left eyebrow before it curved toward his temple. It lent him a sort of piratical look, Nell thought—although the effect was ruined by the blue coveralls . Not to mention the thick wire-framed glasses perched on his nose. According to the plastic tag pinned to his chest, his name was James.

It was clear from the way Whit had tensed that he knew the man. And that whatever history lay between them, it was anything but pleasant.

"Whit," the man said, in a tone that made the temperature drop a good ten degrees.

Beside her, Whit inclined his head slightly. "James."

"I didn't know you were in town."

"I'm not in town." Whit gestured toward the car. "Which is the problem. You're still working for your aunt?"

James's face was carefully impassive. "I work for the city. Kate was understaffed, so I'm helping her out."

"I'm guessing she didn't bother to mention who you'd be meeting."

James didn't reply. His gaze flicked to Nell, then back to Whit. "Are you planning to introduce us?"

Nell drew in a quick breath. Right. They had prepared for this. They had a plan. A story. A completely unbelievable story, in her opinion, but Whit was the one who had to sell it to his family. She was Eleanor Lacey, aspiring sportswriter. She'd been interviewing Whit for an upcoming article when she'd dropped her recording equipment and bent to retrieve it. Simple enough to remember. And one hundred percent fiction, aside from the name.

Whit had chosen the narrative. All she had to do was repeat it.

James's attention shifted back to her. Ignoring the anxious, fluttery feeling in her stomach, Nell lifted a hand to smooth a few loose strands of hair away from her face, straightened up in her best effort to appear professional, and met his gaze with a bright smile. She wasn't going to screw it up this time. No going off-script, no sarcastic comments or biting retorts. Whatever the cause of this man's hostility, it wasn't her concern. She'd made a deal with Whit, and if she didn't hold up her end of the bargain, he had no reason to hold up his. And while Nell might not enjoy lying, the six years she'd lived in her grandmother's house had taught her a lot about playing pretend.

She stuck a hand toward James. "I'm—"

Before she could get another syllable out, Whit slipped his arm around her shoulders and tugged her against him. "This is Eleanor. My girlfriend."