Page 11 of The Romance Adventure

I finally reach the gas pump and get out of the car, leaving my incessant thoughts behind. While the tank fills, I grab the squeegee to clean the windshield. I could’ve flown to Coco Key, but then I’d still need a car and an escape hatch. No way am I getting stuck there.

However, when I get back in the BMW, I am stuck. The truck in front of me angles in such a way that they’re blocking both the way forward and the center lane between pumps.

I grumble. The guy probably ran into someone he knows and is having a friendly morning chat. I tell myself to be patient and wait a full sixty seconds before tapping lightly on the horn.

“This isn’t New York or LA, but I have places to go, people.”

When the truck still doesn’t move, I get out of the car and march over, ready to give the guy a piece of my mind, when I see that the driver is a girl. Rather, a woman with brown hair and overalls.

Eyes squished shut as if wishing away the situation, she repeatedly turns the key in the ignition, but it just ticks. Letting out a defeated sigh, she turns to me and says, “Don’t worry. I got this. Just have to get the battery replaced. But give it a minute. Chances are it’ll start up. Always does. I hope,” she mutters, then she stutters, “Mr. Muffin?”

“Mr. What?” I ask. “Never mind. Pop the hood.”

My oldest brother knows his way around cars better than me, but I’m no slouch at this either. Chip made sure we could change a tire and assess and fix most simple automobile issues.

A disturbing hissing sound comes from the vehicle, along with some steam where there shouldn’t be any. The problem is instantly obvious. “You said you need to replace the battery. But if you do manage to get your truck started, you’re not going far.”

Strawberry Shortcake opens her mouth as if to defend her old pickup.

Not interested in any nonsense this morning, I utter one word, well, I shout it over the cacophony of cars behind us. “Coolant.”

“Cool it? I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Coolant,” I repeat over the honking horns and peppy country song playing over the gas station’s speakers.

“It’s not hot out, but I’ll gladly get you something cold to drink,” Strawberry Shortcake calls. “Remember, I owe you.”

Letting out a grumble, I round to the driver’s side at the same time she comes around the corner. True to form, we bump into each other.

“Can this not happen?” I mutter.

Holding her hands up like she’s innocent, she says, “What’s happening? Nothing is happening. My hands are where you can see ‘em, and I don’t have any beverages on my person. Nothing hot and nothing cold.”

“You need coolant.”

“Why didn’t you just say so?”

“I—forget it.” I point to a pyramid of jugs, filled with fluids, including antifreeze.

If I had any sense, I’d return to the BMW and hide until a tow truck shows up, but that also means I’ll have more time to talk myself out of driving south. That’ll result in an angry Magnus and no one wants the US Navy showing up at their door.

Instead, I fill the truck while she goes inside to pay. At least, I hope that’s what she’s doing and not trying to sweet-talk the clerk into donating the bottle because, by the state of her truck, it looks like she’s living in it. Boxes and bins fill the bed and several empty paint jugs, food wrappers, cups, bottles, and an assortment of random items litter the interior.

When she returns, I can’t help but watch the way she walks, the sway of her hips, and the lift of her shoulders. Trying to figure the woman out, she seems hapless, but she carries herself with confidence and is undeniably pretty, in a perky kind of way.

I close the truck’s hood and pat it. “It’s full. Hang onto the rest in case you need it.”

As I pass the bottle to her, our hands brush a third time. No, this is the fourth.

Why am I keeping track?

Time creeps to a standstill for a second and a half this time. I can feel the breath moving through my body. Not just in my lungs, but through my extremities—fingers and toes. Everywhere.

“Thanks for your help. I hadn’t even sipped my coffee yet and already I caused trouble. I’m usually low maintenance.”

“I’d argue quite the opposite is true.”

Despite her claim not to have consumed any caffeine, she seems jittery. “No, really. I typically spend eight hours a day⁠—”