Canyons & Cabernet (Love Along Route 14)

Chapter One

Lila

"Time to show them what Lila King can do," I said to my reflection in the rearview mirror, then laughed at myself. Talking to mirrors was probably not the mark of a sophisticated wine sales professional, but hey—a girl had to celebrate her victories somewhere.

My phone buzzed with a text from Bowie: "Go kill it, sis. But not literally. HR frowns on that."

I grinned and typed back at the next red light: "No promises. If someone doesn't appreciate my charm, they might get a corkscrew to the eye."

His response was immediate: "That's my girl. Love you."

My big brother. Two years older and perpetually convinced I needed protection, even though I'd been handling myself just fine since we aged out of foster care. Now he owned the most successful wine bar in Orange County, and I was about to prove that King family ambition ran in both directions.

The morning sun painted the California landscape in shades of gold as I left LA's smog behind. My carefully planned itinerary was clipped to the visor—every stop timed, every mile calculated. Some people might call it obsessive. I called it winning.

This position at Sparkling Oak wasn't just a job; it was my shot at building something that belonged entirely to me.

I'd studied their entire catalog, memorized the tasting notes for their award-winning Cabernet, and could recite their distribution network in my sleep.

Madeline Foster, the general manager, had a reputation for eating weak candidates for breakfast. Good thing I wasn't weak.

My Honda gave a concerning hiccup.

I frowned and pressed the gas harder. The car responded, so I shrugged it off. I'd had it serviced last week, and everything had checked out fine.

Another hiccup, followed by an ominous shudder.

"Don't you dare, Penelope," I warned the dashboard. "I have a very important meeting tomorrow, and you are not going to—"

The engine made a grinding noise that sounded like metal eating metal, then started losing power despite my foot pressed firmly on the accelerator.

"Son of a bitch." I managed to coast off the next exit into what looked like the set of a post-apocalyptic movie. Desert stretched endlessly in every direction, broken only by Joshua trees and the occasional rusted car part that had clearly given up hope.

My Honda wheezed to a stop in a dramatic cloud of steam.

I sat there for a moment, staring at the steam rising from under my hood like incense from hell. This was not happening. Not today. Not when I had spent three months planning every detail of this transition.

I grabbed my phone to call AAA, but the screen mocked me with zero bars. Of course. Because the universe clearly had a sense of humor.

The heat was already building in the car, so I got out and popped the hood, though my automotive knowledge extended roughly to "gas goes in the tank." Steam billowed out like I'd opened a portal to the underworld.

A pickup truck appeared on the horizon, and I felt a surge of relief. See? Problem solved. I'd get help, get back on the road, and still make my timeline.

The truck pulled over and out stepped... dear God.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of rugged good looks that belonged on a calendar titled "Men Who Could Probably Build You a House with Their Bare Hands.

" Chestnut hair slightly messed by the wind, a beard that suggested he had better things to do than worry about grooming standards, and dark eyes that took in the situation with calm assessment.

He wore faded jeans that hugged his thighs in ways that should probably be illegal, work boots, and a t-shirt that stretched across a chest that clearly saw regular gym time.

He approached with the confident stride of a man who'd never met a problem he couldn't solve, and something deep in my belly gave an entirely inappropriate flutter.

"Car trouble?" he asked, his voice carrying a slight rasp that sent heat curling through me.

"Just a minor mechanical disagreement," I replied, gesturing airily at the steam. "I'm sure it's nothing a little negotiation can't fix."

One dark eyebrow rose. "Negotiation?"

"I'm very persuasive."

"I can see that." His mouth quirked in what might have been amusement. "Mind if I take a look? I speak fluent engine."

I stepped aside, trying not to notice how his jeans pulled tight across his ass as he bent over the engine. Focus, Lila. Broken car. Important job. Not the way this stranger's forearms flexed as he examined... whatever the hell was under there.

After a moment, he straightened and wiped his hands on his jeans. The gesture was casual, practical, and somehow incredibly sexy.

"Well?" I asked.

"Your radiator's fucked," he said bluntly. "Probably your water pump too. This car isn't going anywhere without major surgery."

I felt my carefully constructed timeline crumble. "Define 'major surgery.'"

"The kind that takes longer than overnight." He pulled out his phone and frowned at the screen. "I've got one bar. Let me call my cousin Beck—he runs a garage about twenty minutes from here."

I watched him make the call, catching fragments that sounded increasingly grim. When he hung up, his expression confirmed my fears.

"Beck can tow it and take a look, but he won't have parts until next week at the earliest. This isn't exactly a high-traffic area for Honda parts."

"Next week?" My voice came out sharper than intended. "I start a new job tomorrow. In Oakcrest Bay. This isn't a 'next week' situation."

He studied me for a moment, those dark eyes unreadable. "Oakcrest Bay? That's wine country."

"Sparkling Oak Winery," I said, chin lifting. "I'm their new sales associate."

"Fancy."

"It's a good position," I said, bristling at his tone. "A great position, actually. The kind people work years to get."

"I'm sure it is." He leaned against my car, arms crossed. "Question is, how badly do you want to get there?"

I narrowed my eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm heading north anyway. I could give you a ride as far as Foxfire Valley in Nevada. From there, you might be able to catch a bus or rent a car to Oakcrest Bay."

Get in a car with a complete stranger who looked like he could either fix my engine or star in my dirtiest fantasies? Every rational thought screamed against it. But rationality had clearly taken a vacation along with my car's engine.

"I don't even know your name," I pointed out.

"Griffin Rhodes." He extended a hand. "And you are?"

"Lila King." His handshake was firm, his palm slightly rough with calluses. "And this is really not how I planned to start my new life."

"Plans are overrated," he said with a shrug. "The question is, do you want to stand here in the desert practicing your negotiation skills on a dead engine, or do you want to get where you need to go?"

I looked at my car, then at my perfectly organized itinerary clipped to the visor. Three months of planning, reduced to automotive steam and empty desert.

A gust of wind caught my papers, and I watched in horror as my itinerary tore free and went tumbling across the landscape like the world's most depressing tumbleweed.

I started after it, but Griffin caught my arm. His touch sent electricity shooting up to my shoulder.

"Let it go," he said, not unkindly. "Sometimes the best adventures are the ones you don't plan."

I stared at my beautiful itinerary as it disappeared into the distance. Months of research, carefully selected stops, perfectly timed arrivals—all of it dancing away like confetti at a very sad party.

"So what's it going to be?" Griffin asked. "You coming with me, or are you going to stand here hoping your car develops a sudden fear of disappointing you?"

I looked around at the empty desert, then at Griffin's pickup truck. It was well-maintained but clearly used, with Nevada plates and what looked like professional equipment in the back. He seemed competent. And it wasn't like I had other options.

"If I go with you," I said carefully, "I need to know you're not some serial killer who preys on stranded women."

Griffin actually grinned at that, a slow, crooked smile that made my pulse skip. "If I were a serial killer, don't you think I'd have better pickup lines than 'your radiator's fucked'?"

Despite everything, I felt my lips twitch. "Maybe that's exactly what a serial killer would say."

"Fair point." He pulled out his wallet and handed me his driver's license. "Griffin Rhodes, Foxfire Valley, Nevada. Clean record, search and rescue pilot, volunteer firefighter. You can take pictures and send them to whoever makes you feel safer."

I studied the license. The photo matched—though it didn't quite capture the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Search and rescue pilot was promising. Heroes didn't usually murder stranded travelers.

"Fine," I said, pulling out my phone to photograph his license. "But I'm texting this to my brother, and if he doesn't hear from me by tonight, he'll come looking. He's very protective and slightly unhinged when it comes to my safety."

"Noted." Griffin pocketed his wallet. "Let's get your stuff before Beck shows up with the tow truck."

I gathered my suitcases and laptop bag from the trunk, mentally recalculating my budget to include unexpected car replacement and alternative transportation.

This was supposed to be my triumphant journey to independence, and instead I was playing damsel in distress to a man who looked like he bench-pressed trees for fun.

"You know," Griffin said as he loaded my bags into his truck, "for someone who just got saved from heat stroke, you don't look particularly grateful."

"I'm processing," I shot back. "Some of us need more than thirty seconds to adjust when our entire life plan implodes."

"Your entire life plan was dependent on a ten-year-old Honda?"

The accuracy of that hit a little too close to home. "Penelope was perfectly reliable until today."