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."
