“Aunt Nancy? Is that you?” I ask when I dial her number on my cell. It’s kind of a silly question seeing as my aunt lives alone, but the wind is howling something fierce, making it difficult to hear her on the other end of the line.
“Megan!” she cries in her signature high-pitched squeal. “You must be getting close to here by now?”
“Oh, I’m close, all right. Pretty much right beside the welcome sign. But my car won’t start. Any chance you can come and get me?” I feel guilty having to ask. I know how hard it is for Aunt Nancy to get around, even after her knee replacement last year.
“We really need to get you some better wheels, Meg. Give me a few minutes and I’ll get this sorted out!” She barely gets the last word out before hanging up the phone. That’s my aunt in a nutshell—high strung on a good day, almost always in pain from osteoarthritis, but ready and willing to do almost anything for anyone at any time.
I climb back in the front seat and slam the door to block out the wind while I wait for her to arrive. I’m not even sure what she drives, but seeing as the welcome sign of this town says the population is only fifteen hundred, I’m sure there won’t be that much traffic coming and going at this time of day with the storm that’s rolling in.
Aunt Nancy is my mom’s sister, but she’s been just as crucial in my upbringing as my own mother. My Uncle Doug died three years ago, leaving my aunt with a void in her heart and a three-bedroom bungalow on a three-quarter acre lot to maintain by herself.
Hence the reason she is so damn excited about the fact that I’m moving in with her. And I can’t deny that I’m just as excited to live with her as well, but it’s just not the path I had thought I’d be on in my life at the age of twenty-one.
But a whack of student debt and the loss of a dream job will do that. I just need to be thankful that Aunt Nancy was able to help me get the journalism job at the Cardon Springs Chronicle. Judging by the population number on the sign in front of me and the lack of cars that have driven by since I’ve been stranded here, I’d say it’s probably not going to be the most exciting newspaper to write for, but a job is a job.
At this point, that’s all I need.
You’re doing it again, I silently chastise myself. Judging the situation before you’ve even given it a shot.
A scoff of anger at my own criticism topples from my lips just as a loud series of raps on the driver’s side window scares the ever-loving daylights out of me, making me flinch enough to almost lift me off the seat.
I look up into the darkest chocolate-colored eyes I’ve ever seen, rimmed with black lashes so thick they would make any woman envious.
But the eyes don’t belong to a woman. In fact, they don’t belong to someone with any semblance of femininity at all. Instead, the man with the sexy eyes is the blatant definition of masculinity with his chiseled features and plain black t-shirt stretched over muscular, broad shoulders, exuding enough testosterone and manliness that I’m convinced he could melt the glass window between us with the heat that radiates off him.
I’m still gawking at him in awe when he holds up his hands in askance. He doesn’t say it aloud, but his arched eyebrow and hand gestures say it for him. Are you going to open the door or roll down the window?
In the city, I probably wouldn’t, but I doubt Cardon Springs has its own resident serial killer so I take my chances and open up the car door. You know, once my hormones stop taking over every synapse firing in my brain, allowing me to think of something other than what this man’s angular jaw must be like to touch.
“Hi,” I say, trying to be polite. “I already called someone to help me out. They’re on their way.”
“I know. Your aunt called me,” he explains in a voice that’s low and gritty. “Looks like I’m that someone you’re waiting for.”
I don’t know why, but a rush of heat creeps into my cheeks at that, flustering me even more. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say to that. My body is screaming, Yeah, Mister, I’ll bet you are, and my mind still hasn’t gotten past the sexy huskiness of his voice or the dark eyes that look through me, not at me.
Through me, not at me. My brain finally catches up a beat later, and I realize just how right I am. Because he’s not looking at me the same way I’m taking him in at all. In fact, this man is barely meeting my gaze now that he’s managed to get me to open the car door. The realization deflates me slightly.
“I’m Craig,” he continues when I haven’t spoken out loud. “I own the repair shop here in Cardon Springs. Nancy called and said your car wouldn’t start, wanted me to take a look. When she mentioned she was just on the way to pick you up, I told her I could drive you home so she didn’t have to come out.”
The city girl in me knows damn well I shouldn’t take his story at face value—it’s a typical story for a serial killer. Except that he knows Aunt Nancy. Or says he does. The man is too gorgeous to be a serial killer. Maybe.
“She said she was coming here herself.” Technically, she didn’t say that at all, but I’m not mentally prepared to leave my life in this stranger’s hands without at least questioning something.
His gaze is fixed on the car I’ve just stepped out of—stupid move if he is a serial killer, I know—and he takes idle steps around the front of it. “Your name’s Megan, right?” he asks, crouching down to check out something near the wheel well, then proceeding to stand up and continue on toward the front of the car, popping the hood. A gust of grayish smoke rolls out from under it. “Nancy’s been going on about you for years. I think just about everyone in town knows something about you.”
That’s embarrassing to think about, but it sounds exactly like my aunt. She loves to gush about me. I’m just a little worried about what topics she has chosen to spread around town. “It sounds like you know Aunt Nancy pretty well.”
“Hard not to when we’ve lived in the same town pretty much my entire life.”
I can’t even see his shoulder or head anymore. He’s bent over under the hood of the car. Even from where I’m standing near the driver’s side door, I can see that his worn jeans are slung low on his hips, and he wears a faded leather belt.
Damn, he’s attractive, I think. Even when I can’t see his face.
“Funny, she’s never mentioned you,” I say, immediately regretting it once I realize how rude I might seem if it’s misconstrued.
Craig pokes his head out from under the hood, a faint, crooked grin curving his mouth upward. “Well, I’m not the one who’s Nancy’s cherished genius of a niece, am I?” When he winks at me a moment later, I’m not sure whether to be mortified or flattered.
“I’m not a genius,” I retort.