As if running out on my wedding wasn’t catastrophic enough, now I’m marooned somewhere between cornfields and nowhere, without a plan.
Breathe, Beth.
I sit upright and try to calm the pounding in my chest.
My phone is still off. I killed it an hour ago after the barrage of messages—my parents needing an explanation, my ex-fiancé demanding I come back, and my cousin indirectly blaming me, like I owed them anything after what Clark did, after what Stephanie did.
I thumb the phone back on, flinching as it buzzes in my hand with dozens of missed calls and texts. Clark’s name flashes across the top. My stomach clenches.
Nope.
I swipe it all away and open Maps. The nearest town: fifteen miles.
In these heels? Not likely.
Hitchhiking? That’s a horror movie waiting to happen.
I toss the phone into my bag and collapse back into the seat, every muscle trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline. Reality hits, heavier than the Kansas summer: betrayal, humiliation, and my family whispering behind my back. Somewhere, Clark and Stephanie are probably celebrating.
Tears burn my eyes, and I try to force them back, but they come anyway, in choking sobs, one after another, until I’m a mess of mascara and regret.
A sharp rap at my window jolts me. Heart hammering, I lurch upright and see a man standing outside. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark blue work shirt. Stubble shadows his jaw, and faded tattoos snake down his forearms.
My hand finds my phone, thumb hovering over 911.
He raises his palms. “Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to scare you. But I got a call that a car had broken down. I’m here to help.”
Behind him, a tow truck idles, engine humming.
Relief rushes in, mingling with embarrassment.
I swipe at my tears and nod.
He points at the hood. “Mind popping it? I’ll take a look.”
I scramble for the latch. The hood pops open, and he walks around to check the engine, exuding a practiced calm.
I flip the visor. My face is a disaster. Smeared mascara, puffy eyes, hair knotted like I’ve been through a tornado. Great.
With a halfhearted brush at my cheeks, I step out.
He’s already deep under the hood, hands skilled and steady. When he stands, he wipes his hands on a rag. “Your radiator hose is busted.”
I try to process. “That’s... not fixable right now, is it?”
He shakes his head. “Not unless you’ve got a spare hose in your purse.”
A weak laugh escapes me. “Sorry. Fresh out.”
He smiles—a hint, barely there. “You’re not driving anywhere until it’s replaced.”
Of course.
I grip the door frame as a headache pulses. “So, what now?”
He gestures toward the truck. “I’ll tow your car back to my family’s shop. Can get the part, but it’ll take a day or two.”
The words settle—heavy, but not impossible.
