Page 17 of Runaway Road (Runaway 1)

She didn’t take it. “You got me a phone?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Because last night I’d tossed and turned, thinking of her on the side of the highway, stranded and alone. “You’re a single woman traveling by yourself. You should have a phone.”

“Thanks, but no, thanks.”

I stepped closer. “I don’t want to turn on the news one night to see a story about how that gorgeous woman whose car I helped fix got butchered by some maniac at a rest stop outside California.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Gorgeous?”

“You’ve got a mirror, Londyn.” Of course she’d caught the one word I hadn’t meant to say. But it was out there now and I’d own the slip. It was the damn truth.

She blushed, a smile toying at the corners of her mouth as she stared at the phone. “You don’t even know me. Why do you care?”

“Just the kind of man I am, so do me a solid. Cut me a break and take the phone. My number’s in the texts.”

She picked it up from my palm, opening it only to close it immediately. “Three days?”

“Maybe four. Then you’ll be on your way.”

And I’d always wonder what had happened to the woman with the jade-green eyes and hair the color of a wheat field in fall. Had she made it to California? Had she turned back for Boston?

Maybe in five years, I’d dial the number to that phone just to see where Londyn had landed.

Maybe she’d even answer.

Chapter Four

Londyn

Summers, West Virginia.

The little town surprised me. I’d awoken this morning expecting to feel restless and impatient to leave. My journey to California was in its infancy and being stranded should have made me feel twitchy. On the contrary, I was actually enjoying myself.

There was something about this place. Something different than anywhere else I’d visited or lived. Charm, maybe? Everydayness? I couldn’t put a word to it, but whatever the feeling, it had wrapped around me like a warm blanket. Yet again, maybe that was just the humidity.

As I walked down a quiet road, my soul was at peace. I wasn’t panicked or worried about my car’s repairs. I trusted Brooks to set the Cadillac to rights—another surprise, considering I’d only just met the man.

My steps were easy and slow as I strolled, my attention on the towering trees. This town had more trees than anywhere else I’d visited. Not a lawn I passed had less than two shading the green grass. Their canopy created a pocket in the world, the towering branches shedding glitter as sunlight broke through the leaves to illuminate the pollen floating to the ground.

It was easy to think the rest of the world didn’t exist in this cocoon. I’d found a long residential street on my explorations this morning. It was straight as an arrow and the trees arched over the blocks. It was like stepping into a wardrobe and finding Narnia—minus the ice queen. There was no flat tire. There was no ex-husband or pregnant mistress. Of all the places in the world to get stuck, Summers was now at the top of my list.

“Morning.” A man on a porch raised a hand.

“Good morning.” I smiled, replaying the words with his Appalachian accent.

I hadn’t heard it before coming to Summers, and even here, not many had it. The inflections were different than a Southern drawl. Those who spoke with the accent barely seemed to move their lips as they talked.

The man nodded from his rocking chair on the porch as I passed, his newspaper in hand. He looked comfortable there, like he might sit out all day. Or maybe he’d duck inside soon to the air conditioning. It was midmorning and the heat was on the rise. Coupled with the humidity, it was like breathing air from a steam room. By the time I went to bed tonight, I’d likely be a sticky mess.

Why didn’t that bother me? Another wonder. I liked the thick air. My skin felt supple and my lungs hydrated. There were days in Boston when the summer was sweltering and muggy. I’d come home from work and dive into the shower to rinse off the grime and sweat. This air, while heavy, had a sweet and earthy smell like flowers blooming and tree bark. Nature’s perfume, untainted by exhaust and city waste.

My flip-flops slapped on the concrete sidewalk as I meandered past yellow homes and white homes and green homes. Not a single house on the block was the same color. Each had its own character and intricate details to set it apart from its neighbors. One owner had covered their lawn with garden gnomes. Another had painted the front door a perky teal.

This was the slowest I’d walked in years, soaking it all in.