This was what happened when you assumed things were looking up after hitting rock bottom.
Delaney Hart shaded her eyes from the blinding rays of the July sun and looked down the long, empty expanse of highway in either direction. It was hotter than Hades and as empty as a school parking lot on Christmas Day.
Crap.
She should have known better than to blindly follow her phone’s GPS directions when it told her to get off the expressway somewhere south of Montgomery. But honestly—how was it possible in today’s world to still have places that weren’t covered by cell service? There were detailed maps of the Mariana Trench out there, for heaven’s sake. There shouldn’t be a freaking black hole over southern Alabama.
Shouldn’t being the operative word.
The last town she’d seen was a good half hour behind her, and it felt as though she were going deeper into no-man’s-land with every mile. She’d pulled over with the vain hope that stopping would give the phone a chance to locate the tower’s signal, but the place on the screen where the reception bars were supposed to be was still maddeningly blank.
A car rounded the bend a few hundred yards down the road and she briefly considered waving it down. It was a lifted truck of some sort, with gigantic wheels that whined like a jet engine and a front grill that was liberally coated in mud. Perhaps not the best choice of vehicles to flag down in the middle of nowhere.
It whizzed by at top speed, sending a blast of hot, sandy air washing over her and pinging her legs with sharp bits of gravel. Sighing, she slid back onto the black leather seats of the decade-old Mercedes she’d bought less than three weeks ago. It had only been three or four minutes since she’d pulled over, but the sun-heated material practically flambéed the back of her legs.
None of this would have happened in her sleek little SLK, with its butter-soft beige leather interior and state-of-the-art navigation system. Of course, if she still had her old car, then she would still have her old life, and she wouldn’t be driving through backwater Alabama on the way to Florida in the first place.
As soon as that thought surfaced, Delaney resolutely shoved it away. She was determined to stay positive about the move. She was starting over. In a beachfront bungalow, no less. How many people had that chance, anyway? Yes, she’d lost just about everything and everyone she’d known and loved in the past two months, and yes, she would be working for a resort, not visiting it, but she still had her health, her MBA, and a world of opportunity in front of her.
If she could just figure out how to get where she was going.
Okay, she’d go another few miles in hopes of finding a town where she could buy a real, hold-in-your-hands paper map. If she found herself further into creepy banjo music land, she’d turn around and retrace her route back to the expressway, even if she would lose three hours total from the detour. Closing the door, she started the car, put it in gear, and tried to turn the wheel. Nothing happened. Then a light went on in her dash that made her stomach plummet straight to her sand-coated toes.
Ooooh, no.
Sweat popped out on her forehead as she tried again. It moved a little, but it was like trying to turn a rusted bank vault wheel. Obviously something was very, very wrong. Maybe it just needed a good reset. A control, alt, delete of the car world. She turned off the car and sat for a second, her heart kicking in her chest as the seconds stretched out.
Good Lord, what if she couldn’t get it working right? She had no cell service, no friends within a hundred mile radius, and no fancy roadside assistance button. She hadn’t seen a real town in dozens of miles, and she didn’t have the first clue where the hell she even was.
Wiping the sweat from her brow with the short sleeve of her peasant shirt, she sat back and exhaled. Was there a name for what a person hit when they busted through rock bottom? The pit of hell, perhaps? Because Delaney was pretty sure she’d just hit whatever it was.
“Please,” she said on a groan as she gripped the key and tried again. The engine turned over just fine, but the light still mocked her from the dashboard, and the wheel was still throwing a fit. At least it was running? Tentatively, she started forward, holding her breath that maybe she could steer if it was moving.
And it worked! Sort of.
It still felt like someone was fighting hard against her efforts to steer, but it wasn’t as bad as when she was sitting still. Increasing her speed, she drove with a death grip on the wheel, her hands locked at ten and two. The rush of wind through the open window felt like air from a hair dryer, but as sweaty as she was, it actually felt good. The car was moving, and that’s all that mattered. She didn’t dare run the AC, the radio, or even the headlights. Stupid as she knew it probably was, she wanted all the car’s energy focused on keeping what little steering ability she had left going until she found a place to ask for help.
With her hands clenched vise-like over the wheel, she barely breathed as the car bumbled its way down the highway. The houses were few and far between, with the space between them measured in miles at first. But then, they started getting closer together. Hope rose inside her like a battle torn flag, and when at last she saw the sign, she nearly cried with relief.
Honeysuckle Hill: Population 2,563 ½. Come and sit a spell, y’all!
Two thousand, five hundred sixty-three and a half? Despite her anxiety about the car, Delaney chuckled. If the town was small enough to count what she guessed was a pregnancy, she could only hope that there’d be a mechanic to help her.
She slowed as she entered the town limits, taking in the large Victorian homes on either side of the tree-lined street. They looked like real-life dollhouses. Some were in disrepair, but most were beautiful, with fun color schemes and lovely landscaping. A ragtag construction crew was eating lunch under a gigantic oak tree in the front lawn of one of the more dilapidated houses while a lumberjack-looking man scowled down at a clipboard. Without even looking up, several of them waved as she drove past.
The gesture made her feel marginally better. She wanted to find a legitimate car place to help her, but at least she knew they were there if she broke down before finding a mechanic. Mentally crossing her fingers, she continued on.
The houses gave way to small stand-alone businesses—a law office to the right and a doctor’s office on the left—before she entered Honeysuckle Hill’s main street, which was helpfully named Main Street. What it lacked in imagination, it at least made up for in quaintness. Brick walkways, strategically placed oak trees, slanted parking spaces—the place was a regular Mayberry wannabe.
And it was small.
The entire street’s offerings consisted of a beauty shop, an appliance sales and repair place—which she didn’t know still existed—a thrift store, diner, antiques shop, a darling little cafe, an ice cream parlor that was all of six feet wide, and an honest to God general store that looked at least a hundred years old.
What Delaney didn’t see was a mechanic shop. As she approached a cop standing by his cruiser in front the small limestone courthouse at the end of the street, she struggled to steer over to him. It was much harder to maneuver at slower speeds. Ducking her head down to see him through the passenger window, she smiled. “Any luck of finding a car repair place around here?”
He leaned over, slid his sunglasses down just far enough for her to catch a glimpse of pale blue eyes, and grinned. “Yes, ma’am, and it’s a good thing, given the way this here car seems to be fighting you.” He tipped his chin toward the right and said, “Rodney’s place is ‘bout a mile up on the right, just past the Honeysuckle Creek bridge. Tell him Brantley sent you. Unless you need help getting there?”
Honestly, she could have kissed the man—a sentiment that had nothing to do with his blond good looks. Well, maybe just a little. “Thanks so much. And I think I can make it on my own. You, sir, are a life-saver!”
He chuckled. “That’s what they tell me,” he said with a wink before stepping back and patting the roof. “If you need anything else while you’re in town, you be sure and let me know.”
Well. There was definitely something to be said for small town southern hospitality. In any other situation, she might have taken a little more time with a handsome, friendly man in uniform, but right now the car took precedence. With a wave of thanks, she let off the brake, finally able to breathe again now that rescue was within her grasp.
Blowing her sweat-dampened bangs from her forehead, she set her foot on the gas and headed toward salvation. It was a good thing she stopped and asked about the place, because she never would have known that the unassuming gravel drive with the towering pecan trees was the entrance to a mechanic shop. As she wrenched the stubborn wheel to round the final bend, she saw the squat one-story brick building with its three bays and smattering of cars in various states of repair.
Delaney parked and blew out a long sigh of relief. Thank God. She could see through the wide picture window that the small office was empty, so she made her way to the open bay and the jeans-clad legs that stuck out from beneath an old truck. An upbeat country song played from an old-fashioned transistor radio from the workbench beyond, masking the sound of her approach.
Pausing a few feet from the man’s work boots, she cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” she said loudly, a hopeful smile already pasted on her lips.
There was a short pause in the man’s movements before he pushed out from beneath the car, the wheels of his low-lying trolley-thingy squeaking. She watched as he emerged inch-by-inch, first his flat belly, then his solid-looking chest and tan, well-defined arms. Grease streaked his sweat-dampened forearms, accentuating the play of muscles as he gripped the bumper and pulled.
She bit her lip, momentarily distracted by the view. This town was looking better all the time. And then she saw the man’s face as he emerged and peered up at her.
Oh, Lord.
Her stomach did an Olympic-worthy dive straight to her knees. The grease, stubble, and toned arms were new, but there was no mistaking those deep green eyes and that tousled brown hair. As she fumbled to get her wits about her, he sat up and draped his arms over his knees.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss Delaney Hart,” he said, his smooth Southern drawl caressing every syllable of her name. A shadow crossed over his face before his features turned wry. “Or should I say, Mrs. Carlton Spencer?”