Chapter 6

Another car whizzes by, making me flinch. I don't like the thought of Declan out there in the rain, alone, so I pull out my phone as a distraction. I haven't texted my dad and Lainey yet, and they're probably worried.

Sure enough, half a dozen notifications are waiting for me. The first, a response from the estate's executor—

Nope, didn't get the tickets wrong. It was a little test. You passed, BOOM. Come straight to the cabin. We have business to discuss. Plan on staying here. The only hotel in town smells like feet, and I have it on good authority that the carpet only gets cleaned once a year. You're welcome.

There's no greeting, no signoff.

Anger and confusion churn in my gut. Is this woman a psychopath?

Why else would someone blow hundreds of dollars on a last-minute plane ticket as a test ninety percent of people would probably fail? In fact, why go to the trouble of testing a perfect stranger in the first place? Could it be part of some weird codicil in my birth father's will?

I guess I'm a popped tire and an Uber away from finding out, although I'm suddenly wary of showing up at the house by myself and being alone with this woman. Maybe Declan—

Don't start asking him for more favors, Claire. He doesn't owe you anything.

Sighing, I text my dad and then Lainey, letting them know there was some trouble with the connecting flight, but I'm making the rest of the trip by car.

Lainey texts back immediately:

Oh no, you're a terrible driver. Are you sure you're okay?

Don't text me back if you're currently driving. I'd feel immense guilt if you died because you were answering me.

I glance out the window, see nothing but rain, and text back:

I have a story for you…I can't tell you now, but it involves the hot guy who's driving this van.

My phone instantly rings. Sighing again, I decline the call and text her instead.

Lainey, what if he'd been right next to me?

Why isn't he?

He's fixing the flat tire. That's part of the story.

Goddamn, you really DO have a story.

The only thing that happened to me today is that a woman shoplifted from the boutique. She stuffed a shirt into her bra and then bought a cheap bracelet. It was incredibly obvious, but I didn't know what to say, and she looked like she could murder me without breaking a sweat. So I rung her up for the bracelet and didn't say anything.

On a related note, I might get fired. It was an expensive shirt.

Crap. We'll need the money from Richard's estate even more than I thought. While my dad offered some financial support after I called him crying on Wednesday afternoon, I'm less inclined to take it now that I know the truth. He's already done so much for me, given so much, and…

He assured me that I'm as much his daughter as ever, but I feel beholden to him in a way I can never repay. Because without him, I would have nothing. I'd be as good as an orphan, since my mother seems to be in no hurry to come back from the ashram, now called the Tribe of Light.

I send off a final text to Lainey—

stay strong, I'll call later

Then I peer out the window again, craning my neck to try and get a look at Declan in the rain. The flat tire is on the side facing away from the highway, at least, so there's minimal chance he'll get hit by a car. I heard him retrieve the spare and whatever doo-dads are needed for tire changing, so presumably Operation-Change-a-Tire is moving forward, but nothing has happened since. No movement of the van, no sound except the rain and an occasional car.

Another minute ticks by, the pounding against the windshield escalating. Intrusive thoughts worm into my brain. What if Declan left, or someone took him? What if he's being attacked by a mountain animal right outside of view? It feels wrong to continued sitting in here, bored, while he's out there getting attacked by a cougar or a black bear or whatever.

I also don't like being left in here with my worry, wrapping around me like rubber bands being squeezed tighter and tighter. So after a few more minutes tick past, I pull the pink umbrella out and get out of the car. Within seconds, I realize why Declan was so dismissive of the umbrella. The rain is falling at an angle that makes protection impossible. Everything is soaked, the ground a thick sludge of gravel. I move around the side of the vehicle, breathing hard, worried I'll find him in some kind of distress. But when I make it to the back tire, he's sitting on his haunches beside it, examining the spare with a scowl.

He glances up at me, his hair soaked, his shirt glued to his chest in a way that outlines every ridge of muscle and the swirl of ink on his chest. Is this what happens when people in books are always talking about forgetting to take a breath? I thought it was B.S., but now I'm not so sure. Because I'm speechless. All I can do is look at him.

"You came out here to save me?" he asks with a slight upturning of his lips, then shakes his head. "The spare's no good. Changing it won't get us to Asheville. We'd be better off with the flat."

"Time for highway patrol?" I ask as the rain showers me with hot spray.

He smiles at me, his hair dripping into his eyes. Drops of water cling to his long eyelashes and beard and drip down his neck. My mind tries to track all of them. "I know a guy. I already texted him. We're less than an hour away."

I step forward with the umbrella, intending to cover us both, but I slip on a muddy patch of gravel and go down like a stack of bricks, falling right onto Declan. Although he'd be more than capable of catching me, he wasn't prepared, so he goes down too. Suddenly we're both splayed out on the gravel and mud and falling rain by the side of the highway, the insufficient umbrella on top of us. I'm on top of him—well, his back anyway—but he rolls to face me, his arms going up around me, holding me as if there's a chance he can retroactively save me from going down. My hands grip his biceps as if they've just been waiting for the excuse my clumsiness has provided.

The umbrella tumbles a few feet away, getting stuck in one of the trees next to us. But my focus is on Declan. His nose has a slight bump on the bridge.

"Are you okay?" he asks hoarsely.

I'm better than okay. My body is stretched out on top of him, and he is hard and hot. I'm so close to his face that I see the surprise fade from his eyes, overtaken by something else.

I remember him talking about his needs, his voice husky and deep, and then his hand is moving over my back in a caress that makes me want to arch into him like a cat. My breasts are pressed to his hard chest, and my nipples suddenly feel hard and achy. The rain's still coming down hard, soaking us more. The warm water is actually cool against my overheated skin, but the goosebumps washing across my skin have nothing to do with it. Neither of us attempt to get up. His arms are still around my back, pressing me closer.

"You should have let me come out with the umbrella sooner," I say, my voice strange and breathy to my ears. "You're all…wet."

He reaches up and captures a lock of my hair in his hand, tracing his fingers over it. "But you're wet too. Your hair is dripping with it." A jolt of pure lust zips through me and settles down low.

"So maybe the umbrella sucks," I admit.

He laughs, and I laugh with him, and it's absurd—being out here and covered in dirt and rain, with this man whose existence I wasn't aware of this morning. It's a pure moment. A good moment, and I want to clutch onto it even harder because I have no idea what's going to come after it. All I know is that it won't feel as good as this does.

I push myself up, palms against his hard chest, thighs on either side of him, straddling him basically. I'm ready to push to my feet when I feel something that makes me pause. Liquid heat courses through me, and it has nothing to do with the rain. I look at Declan, and find his eyes on me, his fixed focus sending more heat through me. "I don't think the magazine would have covered it," I say, my voice coming out ragged.

He curses through his teeth but doesn't try to push me off.

"You told me it's been a while since you've…fulfilled your needs."

A sound of disbelief escapes him. I'm not sure he's even aware of it, but his hand is moving up and down my back, the slight pressure pushing me closer to where I'm desperate to be. "Claire. We should get up and wait in the back of the car. We can change into dry clothes."

"No one's kissed me like you did…not for a long time." Maybe ever, I think but don't say. Doug kissed like a fish gasping for air. There were other men, of course, but none of them were anything special. None of them made me feel special either.

His gaze sharpens on me. The water patters on my back, but it feels good, like I'm running out into a rainstorm and dancing. "Why not?"

"No one's wanted to, I guess."

"That's not true," he says, his eyes beating into me, his hand moving in that same rhythm down my back, his hard cock captured between us. There's so little space separating us—we're even closer than on the plane, his face inches from mine, his mouth in a near smile, beads of rain caught in his beard.

"You were the last person I wanted to kiss before I died," he murmurs, his head so close to mine that I can feel the words and hear them, "and I'd only known you for half an hour. There must be plenty of people who want to kiss you."

"Not like that," I say.

"Then they're stupid," he insists firmly. "There's no curing stupid."

I lower my head slightly, my lips only a whisper above his mouth. Everything inside of me is focused on him, on now.

"Are you inviting me to kiss you again, Claire?"

"Yes," I say, feeling fire in my cheeks because I don't think I've ever had to say it before. To ask for it. And also because his voice is husky and deep and dirty. "I think I need you to."

And the hand he still has on my back lifts up and spears into my wet hair, pulling me to him as he lifts up to meet me—and this time I'm positive. No other man has ever kissed me like this before—like I'm a delicacy, but he's too starving to savor me the way he'd like to. My whole body aches and pulses, and I feel alive in a way I can't remember ever feeling.

All those years of pushing paper, staring at a computer screen, listening to Agnes drone on…how much living did I miss? I could have been doing this—taking planes to mystery places, making out with a sexy landscaper in the rain on a road in the mountains.

Declan sucks on my bottom lip and guides me up to sitting with his hand, my legs weaving around his waist so his hard cock is captured between us, the rain bucketing down on our heads—and I start rocking against him before I even realize I'm doing it, my hands buried in the wet hair at the nape of his neck. It feels natural, it feels good, and from the breathy swear he utters in between hard, desperate kisses and the way the hand that isn't speared into my hair settles on my hip, guiding my movements with slick confidence, he thinks so too.

Then someone beeps a car horn three times, and horror washes over me.

What's the matter with me? We may be mostly hidden by the huge cargo vehicle, but we'd be visible to anyone driving this way. It probably looks like I'm…

I jolt off of Declan's lap, and his eyes follow me, heavy-lidded in a way that has me thinking about his needs. Normally, the knowledge that he's a player, the kind of guy who has a list of women, would put me off. But right now…

My head's still spinning from the last couple of days, and it feels like it'll never stop. No, this isn't going to lead anywhere, but what does it matter? Does anything matter?

There are no guarantees. I put in all those years with Agnes because I thought they were leading somewhere, and the only thing I got was a box full of personal items before I was escorted out the door. Only three or four personal items, since last fall she decided it looked gauche for each of us to have different and unmatching tchotchkes out on our desks, so everyone had to color coordinate and run our final choices by her.

But Declan's still staring at me, the rain dripping off the ends of his messy black hair. His shirt is completely plastered to his chest now, and I can make out more of the tattoo on his pec—a bird of some kind. A bird of prey, my mind supplies, even though it doesn't really look like that. His cock is a hard, delicious outline in his pants, and he's so appealing it's physically painful to look at him without jumping right back onto his lap.

"I've never…" I start, then trail off.

"I know…it's… Maybe it's the near-death experience," he says, his voice gruff. Almost embarrassed again, reminding me of what Mrs. Rosings said on the plane. He reaches for my hand as if to take it, then lets his hand drop. I'm too startled to tell whether or not I'm disappointed. "Let's get inside the back of the van so we can change."

"I don't have anything to wear," I admit as we get up—neither of us in a particular hurry since we're both soaked through and couldn't get any wetter. I definitely couldn't get any wetter. "All of my clothes are in my checked bag."

Everything's in there, a fact I'm trying not to freak out about.

"I have something for you," he says, opening the back of the cargo van. I climb in, my whole body prickling with awareness, because he's going to follow me in.

Because he's going to change in here, too.

My breath sounds obscenely loud, even more so than the water pinging off the metal body of the beast we're in, as I sit on the floor of the van and watch him climb in behind me and close the cargo door. His duffel bag from the plane is already back here, and I watch as he opens it, riveted, as if it might contain evidence about who this man is. Because I don't know a whole lot other than that he's a landscaper who has a dog, a sister he doesn't talk about, and a fear of flying.

Except that's not entirely true. I know that he's funny and an observer—the kind of person who watches others and picks up on things most people wouldn't notice. I know that he has secrets he doesn't want to disclose to anyone. That he's vulnerable with me, and he's not used to it. I also know that he has a big dick and is a good kisser and…

I swallow as I catch the T-shirt he just tossed me. It's bright green, but I couldn't care less about what it looks like, to be honest, because he just peeled off his shirt, letting the soaked fabric slap onto the floor. He's hard and tan and built, with a sprinkling of dark chest hair. I was right about the tattoo. It's of a crow with a sprig of something clutched in its claw.

When he glances over at me—probably sensing me staring at him like an obsessed fan—he swears again. "Don't look at me like that, Claire."

"Why not?"

He pulls on a dry white T-shirt, robbing me of my view. This is a disappointing development, because I'd hoped we'd be keeping our clothes off for longer. "I don't have great control over myself right now."

"Does that mean you're going to turn around while I change my shirt?" I ask, grabbing the hem of my sodden shirt. It's mid-summer and warm despite the rain, but it's still not pleasant to sit around in wet clothes.

"No," he says, his jaw working. "Not unless you want me to."

"I don't," I say, because I'd honestly like him to look. I feel like a different person right now—freer, wilder, more alive.

I pull the shirt off, feeling his gaze beating into me. But I don't put the green shirt on. Not yet. Partly because I have a gorgeous black lace bra on, purchased after I finally worked up the nerve to break up with Doug, and this is the first chance I've had to show it to anyone. Excitement zips through me, and even though I should be more cautious—even though Declan's a near-stranger, and I shouldn't be flashing him in the back of a van by the side of the road—I feel completely safe.

"Why are you so worried about self-control?" I ask. "You told me you have half a dozen women at your beck and call, so you obviously don't care about controlling yourself most of the time. Why does it matter with me?"

He gives his head a little shake, his mouth lifting into a half smile. "I said I had a few friends with benefits. That doesn't mean they're at my beck and call."

"If you're okay with sleeping with them, why not me? From the way you're acting, I'd assume you weren't attracted to me if you didn't keep…" I wave my hand in the direction of his dick, which is still a very pronounced bulge in his wet pants.

Will he be taking those off too?

I steel myself and then say something completely unlike me. "We'll probably never see each other again after today. I think we should have some fun."

He edges closer on his knees, everything in me tracking his progress as he slides across the metal floor of the van. He's so close, I can hear his breathing—deep and measured, like he's having a hard time maintaining control. I can see his pupils expanding as he watches me, taking me in. I'm expecting him to touch me—my whole skin is prickling in the anticipation of it —but instead he picks up the shirt. He looks like he's about to dress me as if I'm some kind of baby doll, not an adult woman perfectly capable of putting on a shirt, when he pauses and eyes my bra.

"It's soaking wet," I confirm. "It'll make the shirt wet."

"So you're not going to wear a bra?" He swallows.

"I don't want to ruin your shirt."

"From what you've said, there's a very low chance I'll be getting it back."

"Why are you holding back with me?" I press, because everything in me wants him, even if it's insane. This isn't normally the way I behave around men, but Declan makes me feel almost wild with abandon. And I can tell he's attracted to me—it's all over him, from his eyes to what's between his legs. The problem solver in me needs to understand why he's holding back.

He wraps his hand around the side of my bare abdomen, a choked sound escaping him. "I like you."

I give myself a second to be pleased by this, even though it's lukewarm praise at best. "So?"

He sighs, his hand rubbing up and down my side, sending waves of sensation through me. "I can't let myself get attached to anyone."

"You don't like the women you're sleeping with?" I ask, incredulous.

"Slept with. I didn't dislike them," he says, his mouth in a firm line, "but there was no temptation for more. On either side."

Maybe I should be worried about why he'd be that desperate to push people away. For all I know, he could be a murderer, a bank robber, a villain. But I'm caught up on his certainty that his "friends" aren't interested in more. I frankly don't think that's possible. Maybe he's not tempted, but they'd have to be. Their ovaries wouldn't allow them any peace until they locked it down.

"How do you know?"

A smile plays at his lips. "Not a lot of women want to date someone who shovels dirt and shit all day, but sex is different."

"You can't cure stupid," I say.

His head arcs down, a single drop of water falling from his dark hair, and he kisses my neck, his lips hot and soft, while his hand reaches around to unclasp my bra.He has the kind of skills that come with experience, another red flag, and a second later, my wet bra is on the floor of the van next to our soaked shirts.

A pleased sigh escapes me, and I weave my hand into the back of his wet hair, pulling him closer as his mouth blazes a path down my neck to my breasts. He kisses between them, his hair brushing against my chest—wet and hot and oh my.

"Declan," I say, my whole body liquid with need in a way it's never been before, not in my entire life. He may not want to veer out of control, but suddenly I do. It feels too good for me to care about anything else right now. Right now, right here in this old van, on the side of a highway, I feel like a goddess. "Declan."

I want to climb into his lap again. I want to climb him like a tree.

He gazes up at me, his head still bowed over my breasts, like they're his life's work. Then he takes my nipple in his mouth and sucks, and I honestly I have no control left. I fumble down, reaching for the button of his work pants, and he doesn't try to stop me, thankfully. Seconds later, I have them unzipped, and I'm reaching down to wrap my hand around him through his underwear. He groans as he shifts to the other nipple, his wet hair brushing against my chest and sending another wave of sensation blazing through me.

Then my gaze catches on the green shirt, which landed face-up on the floor.

Keep Marshall, NC Green

"Oh," I say, my hand flexing around him. "You know Marshall? That's where I'm going. I just inherited a house there."

He pulls away from me so quickly, I'll probably get whiplash.