The Nice Guy

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Brynlee

The scream that comes out of my mouth is involuntary, but I can’t help it as my car spins out on the gravel road and into the ditch. My knuckles grip the steering wheel so hard they turn white, and I don’t take in a breath until I’ve stopped.

The drive on this gravel monstrosity of a road had me bouncing around in my seat to the point I hoped I’d used enough bubble wrap for my breakables. Trying to follow behind the moving truck going far faster than I drive on highways was tough enough, but now I’ve completely lost sight of it.

I breathe heavily, willing myself not to cry. It’s as close as I’ve ever come to my life flashing before my eyes, and all I want to do right now is curl up in a ball and wail.

“I guess I should have listened to the mechanic who said my tires were too bald for this long of a trip.”

Looking around, I assess my situation. I haven’t rolled over, so that’s a plus.

I’m also surrounded by wheat fields rather than corn, which makes me feel a little bit better considering how many horror films I’ve watched.

Better odds to see a masked man with a chainsaw coming at me through wheat than corn.

“This is what I get for thinking I can go out on my own,” I say and climb out of the car.

My heels sink into the soft dirt, and I close my eyes when I realize I’ll never be able to drive up the slope to get back onto the road.

Counting to ten, I use the trick I learned from my pageant days.

Doing this saved me from bursting into tears countless times.

It helped keep me poised and my makeup perfect.

If only the air wasn’t so thick and wet, I might be able to keep my hair and makeup looking as well put together as it was when I left the hotel this morning.

Either the guys in the moving truck didn’t see me spin out, or they don’t care. I have no idea what to do. Who can I call? Does AAA come out to the boonies? Am I in the boonies?

Congrats, Brynlee. You don’t even know where you are.

Copperwood, Georgia. It’s the smallest small town I’ve ever been to.

At least the small part they call “in town,” anyway.

In terms of acreage, it’s pretty big. But downtown consists of a bar, three churches, a salon, a grocery store, a diner, the post office, and five or six empty store fronts.

No stoplights; only stop signs. I could walk to every building in less than half an hour, which is crazy to me. Especially when I’m used to city life.

The way to my grandparents’ house—a place I’ve only been twice—is on the outskirts of town. Far outskirts.

Opening my eyes, I look around and try to determine just how long it may be before I come across another human being. Someone who can assist me or bring me to my new home.

Sweat pebbles on my brow, and I quickly dab at it with the handkerchief in my bag. Mama would be so upset if I smeared my makeup, even if I am stuck outside in the Georgia humidity.

With my luck, I’ll have to wait and hope the drivers of the truck turn around and find me. After all, I’m the one with the key– “Oh no!”

What if they refuse to unload my stuff because I’m not there? I don’t know where the closest hotel is. Does Copperwood even have a hotel? Where will I stay?

I lean back against the car and hiss as the heat burns my exposed shoulder. So much for starting out fresh and being Independent Brynlee for the first time. Three days on my own, and I’m already stuck.

Starting over was something I never expected to do, but when the world hands you lemons and all that…

Dust kicks up in the distance, and I perk up, praying whoever it is will take pity and stop.

I’ve always read that small towns are notorious for kind people.

And murderers. It seems so many of the murders on my true crime podcasts take place in small towns.

There are literally ones dedicated to murders in small towns.

This situation has the potential to either save me or land me a feature on Dateline.

A pickup stops on the road, and the window rolls down. “Are you okay?”

The man has a deep Southern drawl that has never appealed to me before.

Until now. Perhaps it’s because he may be my potential savior, but I nearly swoon.

His wavy, dark hair falls in his face as he leans out the window, and he has a neatly trimmed beard which I normally hate on men.

But not him. He’s neither handsome nor ugly. He’s just… plain. Average.

“I spun into the ditch,” I say. “I’m moving to town, and the guys driving my stuff just kept going to the house.”

“You sound like a city girl. Look like it, too,” he says, looking down at my feet where my heels have sunk into the dirt before hopping out of the lifted pickup truck and walking down into the ditch. “Here, let me help you up to the road.”

“I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment,” I say, grabbing my purse from the open window before accepting his hand as he helps me up onto the gravel towards his pickup.

He’s tall, and while he’s not body-builder buff, he definitely has muscles. His hands are rough and dirty, which are clear indications he does some type of manual labor job. That, or he’s had many unfortunate accidents with pens that have inked him like a horrifying tattoo.

“Didn’t mean it as an insult. Promise.” When he smiles, he has perfectly straight, white teeth. I’m not sure why this surprises me, but I can’t stop my stare. “I’m Rhett Dillon.”

“Brynlee Carmichael,” I say, and I move my gaze up to his chocolate brown eyes.

Okay, those puppies are gorgeous. God, I’ve always been a sucker for brown eyed boys. He’s no exception.

Dropping my hand, he looks almost embarrassed. “Sorry if I got you dirty. Mind if I take a quick look at the car?”

I get a better look at him, and he’s not exactly clean across the board. His jeans, which fit very nicely, have dirt caked on them in spots, and his white T-shirt isn’t quite as white as it likely started out this morning.

The way he speaks makes my stomach flutter, but I manage to say, “Uh, sure. Thank you.”

Rhett climbs into the ditch, and he crouches down to look at the side panels. “It doesn’t look like there’s any visible damage. You might’ve gotten lucky.”

Did I ever. “That’s good, right?”

The chuckle he gives almost makes my knees buckle, and I can’t quite figure out what’s happening right now. All I know is that I can’t stop watching him as he crawls on the dirt to look under the car. For what, I have no idea.

“Yeah, that’s good.”

“Yay.”

Yay? What the hell is wrong with me? Great, he’s going to think I’m some deranged woman who thinks she’s still a high school cheerleader.

He brushes off his backside and climbs back up to the road. “Wait, you said your name’s Carmichael?”

“Yes.” Hopefully that’s not a bad thing.

“You related to Jensen and Kathleen?”

Nodding, I smile, hoping he knew them. Maybe I have a chance to learn about them. “They were my grandparents.”

“That’s not too far from here. I can give you a ride to the house.

Then I can come back to get your car up on the road again,” he offers.

“I’m a mechanic, by the way. Diesel mostly, but I know my way around cars just fine.

That’s what all the grease and dirt’s about.

I just fixed a combine in the Henderson’s field. ”

Thank you, Henderson.

I can’t help but smile at his rambling, and I nod. “I’d really appreciate that. I don’t actually know where I’m going. I only remember coming out here once or twice, but I never paid much attention. I was always too fixated on the wheat fields.”

As soon as I accept the ride, I realize what I’m doing. I’m accepting a ride from a complete stranger. If you die, Brynlee, you have no one to blame by yourself.

Rhett Dillon could be a serial killer for all I know. From what I’ve read and listened to, they tend to be smooth talkers, though not rambling men. “Ramblin’ Man.” That’s a song title, right? Why the hell does he make it so difficult for me to focus?

He holds a hand out to me, and I realize he’s leading me to the passenger side of his pickup—one taller than any I’ve ever seen before—and helps me up into the seat. He quickly moves things away at my feet and tosses them into the back.

“Sorry, I usually keep a cleaner truck than this, but it’s been a busy week.”

“It’s okay,” I say, unable to stop smiling as he runs to his side of the pickup.

He has to be at least six feet tall, and I love his lack of grace as he slips on the gravel and catches himself on his grill guard. Climbing in, he avoids looking directly at me, and I put my seatbelt on.

“Please let me know what I owe you for my car. And the ride. You’re really saving me.”

“It’s my pleasure, Brynlee.”

Okay, the way he says my name makes me tremble, and when he finally looks at me, damn! The look on his face tells me he means exactly what he says. His kindness adds another item to the growing list of things I like about this man I’ve known for all of five minutes.

I have to break the silence. “This is the tallest pickup I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s lifted. I need the clearance when I head into the fields,” he says, his body relaxed as he casually drives on the gravel compared to my rigid and scared posture when I drove. “You said you’ve been out here twice?”

My eyes fixate on the wheat fields out the window, and I nod. “That I remember, yes.”

“I’ve lived here my whole life, and I promise… I would remember seein’ you. Must not have spent a lot of time with your grandparents?”

“My parents were hell-bent on getting out of their small towns, and then when Dad left us, I didn’t see much of him or them.”

He pulls up to the house, and I gape, certain he’s got the wrong place. The limited memories I have don’t do this place justice. Not only is it beautiful, it’s bigger than I remember.

“You look surprised,” Rhett says with a small smirk as he parks next to the moving truck in the driveway. “I thought you’d been here before.”