Page 27 of Famous for a Living

But the tires are nearly as tall as me and the heat works and we’re moving up the mountain at an impressive speed given the elements. Uninterested in looks, absolutely 100 percent practical.

This truck takes after its owner.

“So what about my car?” I ask. “Is there someone I should call to let them know it’s there?”

He shakes his head. “No need. Scotty will tow it to the park tomorrow morning.”

I raise a brow at his certainty and automatic response. We’ve only left the car ten minutes ago, and I have been in Zaiah’s presence the whole time. Unless . . . “How will he know where to take it?”

Zaiah pauses. Glances over at me as if to say, “Do you really want me to explain the obvious?”

I blink back at him as if to say, “Obviously.”

He exhales. “It’s a white convertible.”

“So?”

“Everyone knows Terry’s niece is coming in from New York. I’m sure you’ll find it outside your door by nine.”

“Oh.” I bite my lip. Look out the window. “Great. This is one of those towns.”

One of those towns where word spreads like wildfire.

Zaiah frowns. “I think you meant to say there, ‘Wow, I’m so appreciative that the citizens of this town will help me. What a considerate place these people call home.’”

I hear the rebuke in his words and straighten. “No, I’m not unappreciative. It’s just . . .” I hesitate.

Oh, it’s too late for this. Too late to argue. Too late to defend myself by breaking down what I meant.

I rub my temple. My head throbs too much to even want to consider breaking into the depths of my sob story right now. Not to mention, there’s more than a decent chance he doesn’t care.

“I’m supremely grateful. That’s very kind.”

I stare out at the wall of darkness just beyond the guardrail and cliff. I’d be scared, but there’s something in the way Zaiah’s large, bare hands turn the wheel with ease, neither nonchalant about the storm swirling around us nor with a white-knuckle grip like the kind I so obviously had, that’s comforting.

It’s clear he knows what he is doing and has driven this road a million times.

But just then we swing around another curve hugging the mountain, and I feel a frog jump up my throat. I press my lips together, determined not to yield to my fears. And more importantly, not to yield to my fears after this true fireworks display of an entrance I’ve already made thus far in front of him.

I look down at the center console. Hunt around with my eyes for something to distract myself.

The inside of someone’s vehicle says a lot about who they are, a hundred little details about a person’s lifestyle and preferences. And as I look around, I feel like I’m gathering more data about this man’s life in three minutes than if I read his profile on eHarmony.

An empty coffee mug sits in the console between us, the bottom rim holding the remnants of dark-as-night liquid and a few coffee grounds. Drinks coffee black. Noted.

The mug itself is charcoal gray, positively nothing to define it or give it personality. No top to protect it from sloshing around, as if travel mugs are unnecessarily fancy.

I set my venti coffee cup beside his. I’ve clung to it since the airport layover this morning. Only three sips are left in it, but I draw them out as if they’re symbolic of my last remaining ties to society.

“You drink your coffee pretty quick?” I ask, partly because I’m curious, mostly because we hit a nerve-shattering bump and I feel the tires, mighty as they may be, slide.

Zaiah, amid recentering the wheel, tilts his head my way. “I drink at the normal rate.”

He says it like he’s not certain exactly what I’m getting at.

“Mmm.” I press my lips together as the truck rumbles over another patch of black ice, trying my darndest not to grab the handle above my head. My eyes dart around for another clue.

He keeps a clean car, except for a cupful or two of dirt and gravel gathered on the floorboards, evidence of his job. A pair of aviators dangle from the mirror—nice enough to get the job done, not so nice as to carry a label. An old photograph on the dashboard of him standing beside a young woman, the photo so tattered and faded it seems to have become a fixture of the truck itself.