Chapter Thirteen
Of all the places for me to get a flat tire, my trusty Volvo had done me a solid and crapped out near a scenic overlook pull-off.
Much of the drive to Thornville was on a road that was cut into the side of a mountain above the Clear Creek River, with about
six inches of shoulder on either side. Changing my tire in any other spot would’ve been a death wish.
Although if Ben had his way, I wouldn’t even be getting out of the driver’s seat.
I hadn’t wanted to carpool the hourlong drive with him to my costume designer, Greta’s, showroom, but there wasn’t enough
room for him in the equipment Subaru with Neil and Hailey, and everyone agreed that it was a waste for us all to go in separate
cars. It was bad enough that Mel was meeting us there a little late thanks to an unexpected trip to the pediatrician first
thing in the morning.
Add in the sexy little pairs skating session with Ben a few hours prior and I was fighting to keep things professional between
us.
“It’s my car, let me do it,” I insisted as Ben fished through my trunk to find the spare. We’d quickly figured out that I’d
run over a nail that had been slowly leaking the entire drive. “I’m fast.”
He shot me a look. “I’ve got this. It’s cold out.”
“Do you really think the cold bothers me?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m a gentleman.”
“C’mon, I’m serious,” I bitched at him. “Mr. Chen showed me how, and he made me and Zoey race to see who was better at it.”
It was typical of my surrogate father, teaching us a useful life skill and then turning it into sport. It was how I’d learned
to read a map—who can find the quickest route to Salt Lake City?—and jump-start a car—the loser gets electrocuted.
“We’ll split it. I’ll take care of the jack and pull the old tire off.” He paused. “And maybe I’ll put the spare on.”
“Oh, so all I get to do is take care of the lug nuts? Move.”
I hip checked him hard enough that he stumbled a few steps away from the trunk, then hoisted the spare out.
A car sped by and honked at us.
“I can take care of myself,” I said as I lowered it to the ground and started rolling it toward the flat.
“Yeah, but isn’t it nice to know that you don’t always have to?” Ben asked. He grabbed the wrench from the kit and knelt down
in front of the flat tire. He started spinning the thing on the first lug nut.
“Only half a turn before you jack it up,” I scolded.
“Sorry, sorry, you’re right,” he said as he moved on to the second one. “Been awhile.”
I tried to ignore the way the bright sun brought out the hidden copper in his hair, and how his forearms flexed as he spun
the wrench like a pro. And those hands . . .
Ben glanced over his shoulder and caught me staring.
“What? Am I still doing it wrong?”
“No, no, not at all,” I sputtered as my face went hot. “Should I get the jack?”
He reached for it. “I’m right here, let me do this part.”
“Fine,” I sighed. “But you have to put it in a specific spot under—”
“Thanks, AutoZone, I know that.”
Then he had the audacity to wink at me.
He bent over to look under the car, which made his jeans slide down enough to expose the waistband of his boxer briefs. The
red, white, and blue Ralph Lauren logo on the band proved he was Team USA forever.
Ben had the front of the car suspended in record time, way faster than I could’ve done it. Not that I’d ever admit it to him.
“Madame,” he said with a flourish. “You’re up.”
“Thank you. Now watch how it’s done,” I boasted.
I moved quickly, like I was on a NASCAR pit crew, because that’s the way Mr. Chen had taught us. He’d lectured us about the
hidden dangers of breaking down on a busy road, so I maintained a healthy fear even though the mountain pass had been pretty
quiet so far, and we had a decent buffer from any cars that drove down the rural road.
I got the tire off, rolled it to my trunk, and then ran back.
“And the crowd goes wild,” I intoned with the cadence of a sportscaster. “Quinn Albright is about to set a new world record
in flat changing.”
Ben applauded as I tried to lift the spare triumphantly, but I misjudged my grip and the thing slid out of my hands.
And speed-bounced directly toward the drop-off to the river.
“No!” we screamed in horrified unison.
Ben unfroze first, tearing after the runaway tire. The observation spot was basically a sloped dirt pull-off littered with stones, which made the tire move unpredictably. Just when it started to slow it would hit a rock, bounce into the air, and recharge.
“Careful,” Ben shouted when I tripped on my own feet.
He finally chased it down at the last second, kicking it onto its side just before it was about to bounce over the guardrail
and into the river.
“Oh my god, that was almost a tragedy!” I breathed, clutching my chest and dropping to my knees.
Ben laughed as he squatted down to collect himself, keeping one hand on the tire. “You’re right. A double tragedy—littering
in a pristine waterway, plus without this tire we’d be stranded here together for all eternity.” He gave me a winsome grin.
“I’d have to build us a cabin on the mountainside.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yup,” he answered confidently. “And you’d have to forage for all our food. Berries and mushrooms, mainly.”
“Okay, I get it.” I smiled back at the thought of it. “We’d also adopt some baby animals to keep us company, like a possum.
Maybe a raccoon too.”
He nodded. “Exactly. And the fireflies would be our string lights. Every night we’d sleep beneath them on pillows made of
foraged goose down.”
“And we’d climb to the top of that mountain to howl at the full moon with the wolves every month,” I added. “Wild and free.”
Sensations I’d never experienced. Ben, on the other hand, had been the poster boy for both. We both gazed up at the mountain,
squinting into the cold sunshine.
“Damn,” he finally replied. He cocked an eyebrow, righted the tire, and pretended to roll it toward the river.
“I wish,” I admitted.
“Hey, in a few weeks you’ll have more free time than you ever wanted,” Ben replied with a little more grit in his voice than
necessary. “Maybe you should start planning some camping trips?”
“Oh? Just like you did post-Olympics. A quiet escape to Walden Pond for some introspection, perhaps?”
It was a dig, because his victory tour was headline-worthy. Seeing the photos of him stumbling out of clubs in sweaty, half-open
button-downs in the months after Switzerland was all the proof I’d needed that I’d been a charity case for him.
“Mistakes were made,” he replied with a wince. “I can be your cautionary tale. Do as I say and all that.”
“But you did have fun,” I insisted.
He took me in for a beat. “That’s how it looked, huh?”
The whimsy of our fireflies-and-feather-pillows conversation evaporated.
“If I can do anything for you,” Ben continued, “other than delivering a great episode, it’s to make sure you don’t make the
same mistakes that I did. Because the one thing people never talk about is how—”
A gigantic black pickup slowed down to a crawl, then pulled in behind my car.
“Uh oh,” Ben said under his breath. He placed the spare back on its side and stood up in front of me.
I spied a young girl in the passenger seat as the driver opened the door and stood on the running board.
“Hey,” the guy in a baseball cap called out to us. “You folks okay?”
Ben gave him a wave. “All good. Just changing a tire.”
The guy glanced at my stopped car and us hovering near the edge of the drop-off. “Need any help?”
He sounded skeptical.
“I dropped the spare,” I explained. “It rolled over here.”
“Ah. So . . . you’re okay?”
I realized that we probably looked pretty shady, like we were throwing tires down the hill for sport.
“We’re about two minutes from hitting the road again. But thanks,” Ben answered.
The other car door opened and the little girl hopped out, clutching her phone. “I know you! You’re Quinn Albright!”
I felt my cheeks go hot. I could never predict where I was going to get recognized, which meant I was never truly alone.
“Yup, it’s me,” I gave her a little wave, still unsure how to respond when people told me my name.
“You’re the reason I started skating lessons,” she said excitedly.
“Oh, no way! Are you having fun? Because that’s the most important part.”
“She better be,” the man laughed. “They cost enough.”
“See that guy?” I pointed at Ben, eager to share the spotlight. “That’s a three-time gold medal speed skater.”
“Oh, yeah,” the guy answered for her. “You’re that Blake guy.”
“Close,” Ben answered good-naturedly. “Bennett Martino.”
“Yup, that’s right! Bailey, you should get a picture with the two of them.”
My stomach clenched. A photo of the two of us meant more Ben and Quinn lore that could muddy my comeback story.
“Can I? Would you mind?”
“Of course,” Ben answered. “Happy to!”
“I’ll take it for you,” her father said.
We squished together and I made sure to put Bailey in between us, as a buffer.
“Say ‘gold medal,’” the man coached.
We all laughed, but I shouted the two words in my head as he snapped the photo. I was used to manifesting my future medal
every chance I got.
“Is this okay?” Bailey asked, holding her phone out to show us.
It was an adorable photo, with Bailey’s braces taking center stage. Somehow Ben’s hand wound up grasping my waist, and mine
was clutching his shoulder.
“It’s perfect,” Ben said. “You two look like models.”
Bailey blushed. “I’m going to post it!”
I had to face it; the narrative of what was happening between me and Ben was out of my hands already. Pictures would be posted—I’d
seen plenty of cameras pointed our way at the diner and out on the ice—so assumptions would be made, long before the show
was broadcast.
But no matter what the world thought, I knew there was no way I was going to wind up as Ben’s latest romantic roadkill.