Page 21 of Small Town Boy

He did work. He spent most of the day finishing up the plans for the new landscaping around the local dentist office, making sure that he had everything perfect to present to them on Monday. Nash might be a pain in the ass and an instigator at times, but he’s also a damn hard worker and a perfectionist.

“You okay?” Sylvie’s worried voice questions, her eyes holding the same concern.

I nod. “Yup, just tired. Wasn’t planning on going out. I’ll catch y’all later.”

I spin on my heel, not waiting for any kind of reaction. I know how this goes. It’s the same song and dance any time one of us cuts out early. The girls feign concern, and when that doesn’t work, they pout, while the guys pull the manly “whatever, your call, dude” attitude while silently trying to communicate the same thing the female contingent is.

Tonight, though, it’s not going to work.

Minutes later, I’m back in my truck, turning on Silver Lake Road, heading back to our humble little ranch house. It’s not much, but it’s home. Nash and I have poured blood, sweat, and tears into renovating the place, turning it into the perfect bachelor pad. I turn up the radio, allowing myself to get lost in an old Brad Paisley song. The melody and lyrics are as familiar as these roads, comforting in a way I can’t describe. Both are like an old friend who knows what you’re trying to say without words, and can communicate back with just as much ease.

That is, until I turn onto Depot Road.

Sitting in the middle of the road is an ancient brown flatbed truck, rusted up one side and down the other, the left blinker flashing. I’d know that truck anywhere. Which means I have a damn good guess who’s driving it.

Bronwyn.

I slow down, coming up behind her, throwing on my hazards. Hickory Hills may be small and it may be late, but it’s still a Saturday night and this is still one of the main roads through town. Safety first.

Sliding out of my truck, I leisurely make my way to the driver’s side, unable to hold back my smile as I catch a glimpse of Bronwyn in the rear-view mirror. She’s tucked her long hair behind her ears, left hand gripping the wheel like her life depends on it, teeth sunk into her bottom lip as she tries to turn over the engine. An engine that has no interest in doing anything.

I take a moment to soak in her beauty. Even clearly frustrated, there is something about her that I can’t take my eyes off of. But I need to. Because she needs help.

“Hey there,” I drawl, placing one hand above the car door and leaning in. I try to think of something funny and witty to say, but I’m the wrong Keller. So I settle with the only thing that comes to mind. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Hosting a tea party,” she retorts without skipping a beat. She runs her hand over her ear, like she’s tucking her hair, a nervous tic if I ever saw one.

“Well, I don’t know how you do things up there in the north, but down here, we don’t advise doin’ that in the middle of the street.”

Bronwyn turns toward me, leveling me with a look. One that is a mix of “I can’t believe you sassed me back” and “what did you just say?” Her eyes send a different message though—they sing a song of how she’s frustrated and afraid to show it. My heart aches, my desire to help even stronger now.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened,” I say, trying to change the tone.

“It…it’s just stopped.”

“Just stopped?”

“Yes! The clutch wouldn’t engage, so I pushed as hard as I could, then all of a sudden it went straight to the floor, and then it was, like, floppy, and the truck just stopped.”

I peer inside, leaning over her. She pushes back into the seat, allowing me room, but the cab is only so big. My shoulder grazes against her front, and I have to stop my mind from running in a very inappropriate direction. My dick is already trying to run the show; he doesn’t need a co-conspirator right now. Her sweet scent fills my nostrils, making me dizzy and borderline drunk as it takes over all my senses. I have no idea what it is, but I know that it’s not something I’ll be forgetting soon.

“Probably has to do with your being in reverse,” I tell her, pushing back out of the truck. I lean against it, resting my forearm along the window.

“Not possible. I was moving forward.”

“With a standard transmission, it’s possible. It’s also why the clutch went out.”

“Is that why it won’t start now?” she asks, biting her lip again. Fuck, that is turning me on way more than it should.

“Maybe. You turning it over and over and over again trying to start it isn’t doing it any favors either.”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? I’m pumping the gas while⁠—”

I throw my head back, laughing. I know it’s not what I should be doing and that it’s borderline mean, but I can’t help it.

“No, Honey. Not with a stick. You don’t touch the gas pedal at all. I got ten bucks that say you’ve flooded the engine.”

“Shit…” She bangs both hands on the wheel, letting out a growl that reminds me of a baby lion—way more cute than terrifying. But just like I wouldn’t tell the lion that, I’m not going to tell Bronwyn. “And my name isn’t honey.”