Page 1 of Small Town Boy

1

BRONWYN

This is not happening.

I mean, seriously. This is not fucking happening.

Sucking in a breath as deep as I can, filling my lungs and stretching my diaphragm until it hurts, I try to calm myself. That’s what you’re supposed to do when trying not to lose your shit, right? Take a deep breath. So that’s what I’m doing.

It’s not working.

I exhale hard and fast, letting the air rush out of my body at record speed. This is not happening.

Everything was going great—exactly to plan. No, better than to plan. The driver picking me up this morning was on time and his car was clean. Like, pristine. He even had bottled water and snacks for me for the ride to Logan airport. Once at the airport, I breezed through security. Then, I had the entire row to myself on the plane. The plane that took off early—yes, apparently that does happen—getting us into Atlanta more than thirty minutes ahead of schedule.

It was like the stars had aligned.

I should have known better.

“Fuck!” I curse out loud, not giving a damn if I look like I’m talking to myself. Because at this point, it’s what’s keeping me from crying.

No, I will not cry. This situation does not deserve tears. It’s just a car.

My phone vibrates in my hand, stealing my attention. I look down at the screen, not recognizing the number but pretty sure I know who it belongs to.

“This is Bronwyn,” I answer.

“Hi, this Brown-wine?” the southern accent on the other end asks.

Brown-wine. Well, that’s a first. I’m used to getting looks and being asked how to pronounce my name, but no one has ever come at me with a specific colored alcoholic beverage.

“Bronwyn. Brahn-win,” I correct him. “And yes, this is Bronwyn Ainsworth. Is this Mr. Comis?”

“Yup. The app tells me that you were the lucky one to be paired with my Barbra for a car-share. Well, there’s a bit of a problem with Barbra…”

I sigh, having no idea who Barbra is. Given the context of the conversation though, I can only assume she’s the gold Honda Accord I’m supposed to be picking up. And based on the fact that what I am staring at is a pile of shattered glass and what looks to be a door handle, coincidentally gold in color, I’m going to say that “a bit of a problem” is an understatement.

“Seems she’s been stolen,” he continues, his voice oddly cheery considering the news he’s delivering.

“I can see that.”

“So, I guess I’m going to have to cancel the share. Sorry ‘bout that.”

Great, just great…

“Now what am I gonna do…” I mutter, much louder than intended.

Really, that should have remained an internal thought. It’s not this guy’s fault. Although, maybe it is, for driving a car that is consistently listed as the most commonly stolen vehicle in America and leaving the keys in plain sight. Even if the car was locked, with the keys in the center cup holder, he was asking for it.

“There’s always a traditional rental company,” he answers, his southern manners taking over, oblivious to the fact that my statement wasn’t actually directed at him. “Hate to give those corporate baddies any more money than I have to, which is why I car share when I’m out of town, but they are always an option.”

“They aren’t, Mr. Comis—not today.”

Something snaps inside me, my response harsher than it needs to be. Despite all my self-reminders to remain calm, I’m not doing a very good job. Maybe it’s the heat. It might be the middle of September, but it’s freaking hot. And still humid. It feels like it might as well be the peak of summer. If this is what fall feels like, I might not survive a southern summer.

“That’s the whole reason I even tried this car share thing! I was having the best travel day of my life and then I get off the plane to find out that my boss—my new boss, by the way—who was supposed to be meeting me here, wasn’t going to make it. His flight was canceled, so he’s frantically trying to rebook and deal with his own shit, which meant that I’m on my own. Okay, fine, I’m a big girl. I can handle renting a car. Except, no. Every damn car in the city of Atlanta is apparently booked. All of them! Which led me to this. Only this isn’t working out so hot either, now is it? To make this all that much worse, I hate driving. So it’s not like I even really want to get behind the wheel to make this hours-long journey, but here we are!”

Silence greets me. Again, can’t blame him. This stranger does not deserve my rant. A rant that came out a lot bitchier than intended. Which, given how harsh and out of place my northern accent sounds around here, must have made it that much worse.