I get a better look at him, and he’s not exactly clean across the board. His jeans, which fit very nicely, have dirt caked on them in spots, and his white T-shirt isn’t quite as white as it likely started out this morning.
The way he speaks makes my stomach flutter, but I manage to say, “Uh, sure. Thank you.”
Rhett climbs into the ditch, and he crouches down to look at the side panels. “It doesn’t look like there’s any visible damage. You might’ve gotten lucky.”
Did I ever. “That’s good, right?”
The chuckle he gives almost makes my knees buckle, and I can’t quite figure out what’s happening right now. All I know is that I can’t stop watching him as he crawls on the dirt to look under the car. For what, I have no idea.
“Yeah, that’s good.”
“Yay.”
Yay? What the hell is wrong with me? Great, he’s going to think I’m some deranged woman who thinks she’s still a high school cheerleader.
He brushes off his backside and climbs back up to the road. “Wait, you said your name’s Carmichael?”
“Yes.” Hopefully that’s not a bad thing.
“You related to Jensen and Kathleen?”
Nodding, I smile, hoping he knew them. Maybe I have a chance to learn about them. “They were my grandparents.”
“That’s not too far from here. I can give you a ride to the house. Then I can come back to get your car up on the road again,” he offers. “I’m a mechanic, by the way. Diesel mostly, but I know my way around cars just fine. That’s what all the grease and dirt’s about. I just fixed a combine in the Henderson’s field.”
Thank you, Henderson.
I can’t help but smile at his rambling, and I nod. “I’d really appreciate that. I don’t actually know where I’m going. I only remember coming out here once or twice, but I never paid much attention. I was always too fixated on the wheat fields.”
As soon as I accept the ride, I realize what I’m doing. I’m accepting a ride from a complete stranger.If you die, Brynlee, you have no one to blame by yourself.
Rhett Dillon could be a serial killer for all I know. From what I’ve read and listened to, they tend to be smooth talkers, though not rambling men. “Ramblin’ Man.” That’s a song title, right? Why the hell does he make it so difficult for me to focus?
He holds a hand out to me, and I realize he’s leading me to the passenger side of his pickup—one taller than any I’ve ever seen before—and helps me up into the seat. He quickly moves things away at my feet and tosses them into the back.
“Sorry, I usually keep a cleaner truck than this, but it’s been a busy week.”
“It’s okay,” I say, unable to stop smiling as he runs to his side of the pickup.
He has to be at least six feet tall, and I love his lack of grace as he slips on the gravel and catches himself on his grill guard. Climbing in, he avoids looking directly at me, and I put my seatbelt on.
“Please let me know what I owe you for my car. And the ride. You’re really saving me.”
“It’s my pleasure, Brynlee.”
Okay, the way he says my name makes me tremble, and when he finally looks at me, damn! The look on his face tells me he means exactly what he says. His kindness adds another item to the growing list of things I like about this man I’ve known for all of five minutes.
I have to break the silence. “This is the tallest pickup I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s lifted. I need the clearance when I head into the fields,” he says, his body relaxed as he casually drives on the gravel compared to my rigid and scared posture when I drove. “You said you’ve been out here twice?”
My eyes fixate on the wheat fields out the window, and I nod. “That I remember, yes.”
“I’ve lived here my whole life, and I promise… I would remember seein’ you. Must not have spent a lot of time with your grandparents?”
“My parents were hell-bent on getting out of their small towns, and then when Dad left us, I didn’t see much of him or them.”
He pulls up to the house, and I gape, certain he’s got the wrong place. The limited memories I have don’t do this place justice. Not only is it beautiful, it’s bigger than I remember.
