3. Callum #3
Even in the freezing mountain wind, a sudden flare of heat crawls up my neck and straight into my cheeks. I frown into the dark engine bay.
Great. Blushing. That’s fucking new. I’ve never been a blusher.
I shift my weight to keep the heavy wet jacket hovering over her head while she leans back into the engine bay. She jiggles a thick wire loom and lets out a low whistle before wiping a drop of rain off her chin with the back of her wrist.
“Your main battery terminals are tight, but your entire electrical bus is completely cold,” she says. “Either your main alternator fuse popped or your ECM just committed suicide. Either way, you’re not fixing this in a monsoon.”
She backs out from under the hood and looks up at me. “There’s only one garage nearby—Harlan’s, down near the square—and he’s not opening up until eight tomorrow morning.”
Great. Fantastic.
I stare past her into the dark interior of my truck. Just how I envisioned spending night one of my mandatory fourteen-day vacation—curled up like a pretzel across the front bench of a dead Sierra, shivering in wet denim while I wait eight hours to call a tow truck.
The woman lets out a long sigh, resting one hand on the curve of her hip. She tilts her head, taking in my height, my broad shoulders, and the damp Carhartt jacket I’m still holding over us like an oversized umbrella.
“Are you a serial killer?” she asks flatly.
I arch an eyebrow down at her. “No.”
“Because I’m really not trying to end up as the main subject of a three-part true crime podcast tonight.”
I give her a dry look. “You won’t. But if I was a serial killer, do you really think I’d just tell you?”
Her dark eyebrows draw together. “You’re doing a shitty job of convincing me right now.”
I hold my left hand up in the air between us. “I solemnly swear I am not a serial killer.”
She stares at my raised hand for two long seconds, then lets out a small huff of a breath.
“Right. Well. I guess I’ll take my chances.
” She nods back toward her idling hatchback.
“I know a place in town where you can stay for the night. Clean sheets, roof over your head, no pneumonia. I can give you a ride.”
I look from her face to the low-slung black car sitting ten yards away with its windshield wipers slapping wildly against the glass.
“And how do I know you’re not a serial killer?” I ask.
A smirk tugs at the corner of her full lips—a slow, feline smile that shows off a hint of white teeth in the dark.
“Please. If I was going to murder you, I would’ve gouged you right in the kidney with my house key while your hands were stuck up in the air playing human tent with your jacket.
Do you know how much physical labor goes into hauling six feet of dead weight into a muddy ditch? In tights and a miniskirt?”
I stare at her for a beat. “That’s…remarkably detailed.”
“What can I say? I’m a pragmatist,” she says, wiping a stray raindrop off the tip of her nose. “Now put your coat back on and grab your bag. I’m freezing my ass off standing out here.”
I drag my coat back over my shoulders, zipping it up against the damp chill before walking around to the backseat of my truck. I grab my two heavy canvas duffel bags, hooking the straps over my shoulder.
She gives a small shake of her head, muttering something under her breath, turns toward her car and pops the trunk open. I toss both duffels into the back, and the entire rear end of the small car dips under the weight.
I head around to the passenger side, but before I can touch the handle, she’s already leaned halfway through the driver’s side door, frantically clearing off the seat.
A flurry of trash gets shoved straight into the back—crumpled paper bags from two different drive-thrus, a discarded fleece jacket, a stray clip for her hair, a bottle of dry shampoo, and an unpaid parking ticket rolled around a tube of lip balm.
The place smells like vanilla air freshener.
I rest my arm on the roof of the car and wait.
It’s a disaster, but at least the car’s got some personality.
A tiny glass disco ball hangs from the rearview mirror.
Attached to the driver’s visor is an overstuffed fabric CD holder, spilling jewel cases across the dash—Queen, The Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Pink Floyd.
At least she’s got great taste in music.
Right now, though, the car’s ancient tape deck is spilling out the gritty, tinny guitar riffs of what sounds like Joan Jett.
As she shoves the last greasy fast-food bag behind her seat, a small Ziploc tumbles out of the top fold. Inside are five or six joints.
She snatches up the bag like she just found a twenty-dollar bill on the sidewalk. “Oh, fuck yes,” she breathes, holding it up to the light. “I was looking for these!”
I lean against the door frame, slowly raising one eyebrow.
She catches my look, her fingers tightening around the plastic. She squints at me through the dark. “You want one? Wait, you’re not a cop, right?”
“Detective,” I correct.
Her eyes widen just enough for me to catch the flash of white. Whatever calm front she had evaporates into a scramble as she shoves the bag into the glovebox and slams it shut with the heel of her hand.
“You never saw those,” she says, pointing a finger at my nose.
“Right. Blind as a bat.” I finally duck my head inside, turning to check the back before I squeeze my legs into the tiny footwell.
Curled up on a crumpled flannel shirt right behind my seat, completely undisturbed by her hurricane of a cleanup, is a solid black cat.
“Cute cat,” I say, looking back over at her.
She adjusts her rearview mirror with a quick jerk of her wrist, not bothering to look at me. “Don’t tell him that or he’ll bite you.”
I hold her gaze for a second, genuinely unable to tell if she’s serious or not. But then the corner of her mouth twitches. The guarded look she had breaks, and a deep, unexpected dimple carves itself into the side of her cheek.
It completely changes her face. Softens the sharp edge of her jaw, takes the sting out of her sarcasm, and makes her look entirely too pretty for my own good.
I pull the door shut, folding my knees into the dashboard, and tell myself to look out the window.
She jerks a thumb over her shoulder toward me, shifting the car into gear. “Sorry about the tight squeeze. I didn’t really account for your whole…tall situation when I stopped. It’s been a long time since I had a man in here.”
I shift my legs, trying to find an angle where my kneecaps aren’t jammed directly into the plastic glove compartment. “It’s fine. I’m just grateful you stopped. I’m Callum, by the way. Callum McKinley.”
She pulls out onto the slick, dark stretch of two-lane highway. “Freddie Rowley.”
“Freddie?” I look over at her profile. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard that name on a girl before.”
She shoots me a fast glance before focusing back on the road. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”