Baby, Drive South. Stephanie Bond
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she should wait until morning….
Across the road and beyond a tree line, voices, music and the radiance of a fire indicated the barbecue was getting underway. The good-time sounds pulled at her, but the suitcases in her hands propelled her forward. If she waited until morning, there would be confrontations, explanations, excuses…drama she didn’t want or need.
Especially when it came to a certain pair of cobalt-blue eyes.
After loading her suitcases in the back, Nikki climbed into the driver’s seat that was uncomfortably warm from the build-up of the day’s heat. She zoomed down the window to let the stale air escape.
In the side mirror, the amazing watercolor sunset was melting onto a distant mountain range. Nikki paused a few seconds to drink in the matchless scenery. If this town ever took root, it would blossom in the most glorious of surroundings.
Then, nursing a tiny pang of regret, she started the engine, turned the van around and pulled away.
8
From a rocking chair in the shadows of the porch, Porter observed Dr. Salinger pulling away in her long van. Damn it, Marcus and Kendall had been right about her hightailing it back north at the first chance. Sneaking out when everyone was preoccupied, without so much as a “nice to know you.”
Truth be known, his feelings were a little hurt.
Porter pulled at his chin and waited, counting off the seconds the way he and his brothers used to do when they were little, trying to figure out how far away storms were by measuring the time lapse between a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder. One Mississippi…two Mississippi…three Mississippi…
The van’s brake lights came on before four Mississippi, then the engine sputtered and died.
Porter positioned his crutches and pushed to his feet. His leg was aching from crawling under the van to disconnect the fuel pump, but it was a quick way to safely disable the vehicle.
Marcus had charged him with keeping the little lady doc here. He hadn’t specified the methods had to be aboveboard.
The van slammed into Park, and the sound of the engine trying to crank floated on the evening breeze. By the time Porter reached the driver’s door, Dr. Salinger was banging on the steering wheel and cursing like a longshoreman.
“What’s up, doc?”
She startled and screamed, then turned her head to look at him through the open window. “You scared me to death!”
He grinned. “Sorry about that. Going some where?”
She opened her mouth, then seemed to cast about for a plausible explanation. “I…was just…exploring.”
He craned his neck to look over her shoulder into the backseat. “With your suitcases?”
She looked away, then back, and lifted her hands. “Okay, you got me. I was leaving.”
“I guess we didn’t make a very good first impression,” he conceded. He was struck by the perfection of her profile in the low lighting. The woman had exquisite bone structure. She was really quite pretty…not sexy by any stretch of the imagination, but pretty.
“I shouldn’t have come here in the first place,” she said quietly. “I…I don’t belong here.”
No surprise, he thought, Sweetness wasn’t good enough for her and her medical degree. “So you’re going back home?”
Her small hands tightened on the wheel. “If I can get out of here. I don’t know what’s wrong with the van.” She peered at the dashboard. “The gas tank is almost full and I bought a new battery a couple of weeks ago.”
“Let me take a look under the hood,” Porter offered magnanimously. “Do you have a flashlight?”
She rummaged in the glove compartment and came up with one. “Can I help?”
“Uh, no. Stay inside in case I need you to turn the key.”
He hobbled to the front of the vehicle, then made a big production of lifting the hood and putting the hood’s prop arm in place. He pinged the light around, pretending to inspect various pieces and parts, but craned in the direction of the barbecue site with longing. The voices and music were louder, beckoning. Damn, all those hot, single women were being sociable and he was stuck trying to convince the one woman who wanted to leave Sweetness to stay.
“Try turning it over now,” he called idly.
She did, but of course, deprived of fuel, the engine didn’t catch.
He tapped the flashlight on an engine support, then called, “Again.”
She turned over the ignition but again, nada.
After a respectable pause, he slammed down the hood and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Sorry. Looks like you’re stuck for a while.”
She thrust her head out the window. “What’s wrong?”
He shrugged, careful not to lie…too much. “Could be a lot of things. Hard to say in the dark. Best to have a mechanic take a look in the morning.”
Her jaw dropped. “In the morning?”
“Everyone is at the barbecue,” he said, jerking his thumb over his back toward the commotion through the trees. “Except us.”
She frowned. “I thought you were going with Rachel.”
As if he needed to be reminded that he’d had to cut the leggy blonde loose. “My ankle was hurting, so I told her to go on ahead. I was resting on the porch when I saw you sneaking out.”
“Did you take the pain pills I gave you?”
“Sure did.”
She climbed out and slammed the door. “I wasn’t sneaking out.”
“Do you need help with your suitcases?”
“You’re on crutches,” she reminded him, then opened the back door and yanked out her luggage. “Is it safe to leave my van sitting in the middle of the road?”
“It’s not like we have a lot of traffic.”
But she didn’t seem amused as she turned and headed back to the boardinghouse.
“I’ll have a couple of the guys come back and roll it to the shoulder,” he promised as he hurried to keep up with her. She marched into the house and down the long hallway. For such a small woman, she was sure man-handling those suitcases. At the bottom of the stairs, she whirled around.
“Why are you following me?”
He drew back. “Since you’re staying until morning, I thought we’d go to the barbecue together.”
“You should be in bed.”
Porter’s mouth went dry because standing this close to the little lady doc was messing with his senses. The scent of the lemony soap she used filtered into his lungs. Why was he suddenly thinking about her lithe body straddling his on a big, soft bed? Porter shifted on his crutches as a dozen responses to her comment came to mind, innuendos that would’ve entertained or tempted most women. But he was already in trouble for pushing things too far with this one, and he couldn’t afford to nudge her over the edge.
“I don’t want to miss the party,” he said finally, then grinned. “But I’d feel better if I were under medical supervision.”
“I told you I don’t care to go!”
When her eyes filled unexpectedly with tears, Porter almost bolted. Tears were beyond even his skillset. The reasons men cried could be counted on one hand: a Superbowl win, a Superbowl loss, too much hot sauce and losing a favorite spinner bait. The reasons women cried were limitless and mysterious, running the gamut from hormones to clearance sales. He was at a loss.
Besides,