When they finally got back to the Mustang, Samantha was in a foul mood. Partly because she hadn’t slept in days, but also because she deeply regretted what she’d said. The server had meddled so much, all the memories she’d tried to forget about were rising to the surface. Memories she hadn’t thought about for a long time. Memories she’d buried deep for good reason.

As soon as she buckled herself into her seat, she bent forward to fish her iPod out of her bag and start a new book. It was one she’d listened to at least a thousand times but always found comforting. Like a threadbare old t-shirt, or a bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone—the story about the boy who lived.

She closed her eyes, listening to the voice that had lulled her to sleep on too many occasions to count, and tried to forget about the past. To forget about everything. To not worry about the what-ifs, or the reasons he didn’t remember. But to focus on an epic tale about good vs. evil. About power, and temptation, and growing up.

Before long, a good four chapters into the story, something changed. She felt the car slow, decreasing in speed at a steady rate that caused panic to lurch in her chest. She quickly opened her eyes, sure they hadn’t been on the road long enough to justify stopping, and realized they were pulling off to the side of the road—on a pitch black two-lane highway—in the middle of nowhere. Samantha pulled the ear buds from her ears and straightened. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Don’t tell me you’re going to go to the bathroom out there.”

But there was something different about the way they were moving, like something was wrong, and a sinking feeling settled in the bottom of her gut. “We ran out of gas, didn’t we?”

The car rolled to a full stop, and Tristan, who still hadn’t said a word, put it in park. “I filled up less than three hours ago.”

Samantha shoved her iPod back in her purse and swallowed. A cold draft rushed over her face and neck as Tristan got out of the car. She quickly followed after him, wrapped in her red wool blanket. “I can’t believe this! I told you this would happen. I knew we could run out of gas.”

He lifted the hood and propped it open. “For the last time, we didn’t run out of gas!” He pulled his cell from his pocket and flipped on the flashlight. “Something’s wrong. It’s just too dark to see what.”

He turned around to sit against the car, then held his phone up in the air and moved it side to side looking for a signal. “Shit! There’s no service.”

Samantha closed her eyes, not allowing herself to panic. “What are we going to do?”

He zipped his jacket all the way up to his chin, closed the hood, then finally looked at her. “You’re going to get back into the car. I’m going to go try to find help.”

“Like hell I am! I’m coming with you.”

“Sammie.” He closed his eyes, his head lulling back to his shoulders. She knew what he was going to say. That it was too dangerous, that he was big and heroic, that he was going to take care of her like the male chauvinistic ass that he was, but instead, he surprised her by looking up again. She waited for him to speak, to tell her why she couldn’t come, but he said nothing. His blue eyes reached hers, making her feet unstable. He finally shook his head, as though not sure what he was getting himself into, and turned on his heels. “Fine.”

It took only a moment for her to recover, to realize she’d actually won the argument, and to hurry after him. How had she won so easily? Why did Tristan Montgomery keep surprising her at every turn? She wasn’t sure of the answer; all she knew was that her teeth were already chattering and she had left her warm jacket back in the car. “Where are we? How close are we to the next town?”

“Iowa,” he answered. But that was all he said. Because he didn’t know how far they were to the next town. He didn’t know anything at all.

Samantha took her phone from her pocket, and held it up to illuminate their path. “Has this ever happened to you before?” she asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure we’re not out of gas?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

Silence.

“Tristan, how do you know?” A chill ran up her spine, though it wasn’t from the cold this time. It was because of him. He raked his fingers through his hair, giving away his stress, and that made her even more nervous. He was the guy who let everything roll off his shoulders. Who didn’t give a shit. But now—

“Because I know my car,” he finally said.

“Oh God,” she whispered. Only to herself, but that didn’t matter.

He stopped dead in his tracks. Turned around, and looked her dead in the eye. “Do you have a problem?”

She clenched her jaw, telling herself to be quiet, but she couldn’t. “Yeah. Actually, I do.” She lifted her chin, higher than she felt confident, and took a step toward him. “I’m supposed to be at my best friend’s bachelorette party in two days. Two. And you’re giving me the cold shoulder and saying things like, ‘I know my car.’ ”

He laughed under his breath and pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets. “What do you want me to say, Samantha? What?”

“I don’t know! I want you to give me a real fucking answer!”

He snapped! Picked up a rock, and threw it into the dark forest—so hard that the sound echoed through the secluded night. He took a breath, as though frustrated and out of control, as though he was trying to compose himself enough to face her.

He finally turned around, his jaw tight and clenched, but so much emotion was etched on his face that her eyes immediately went blurry with regret. It was as though a thick blanket smothered the Tristan she’d known all her life. His confidence, his smile, his easy nature. “It’s my fault, is that what you want me to say? That it’s my fucking fault?”

Tears rushed to her nose and throat. She couldn’t bear to see him this way. “No,” she said. “No, that isn’t it at all.”

He gripped his forehead and turned around again. “I should have never agreed to this. I should have said no.”

She froze, her heart thumping. “Agreed to what?” she asked, standing still.

He turned around, squeezed his eyes shut as if not realizing the words had come from his mouth. “Nothing.”

“No.” She wrapped her arms around her belly, not letting it go. “What did you agree to, Tristan?”

He remained silent, giving her all the answer she needed. She looked down to her feet, tears stinging the backs of her eyes. “Renee talked you into this, didn’t she? You don’t want to be here any more than I do.”

“Samantha—”

But she shook her head, stopping him.

“Look—I’m frustrated, too.” He moved toward her. “But we’re in this together.”

Emotion quickly gathered in her chest, and she clenched her arms at her side. “I know.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She nodded, her chin quivering.

But scared wasn’t the feeling that was cutting her like a knife. It was something else. Something heartbreakingly difficult for her to admit to. Because hearing that he didn’t want to be there sent a chill over her entire body.

He came closer still and draped his heavy jacket around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Samantha.” He tightened the jacket around her shivering body, fastening it at the bottom before zipping it up to her chin. But he didn’t move away. He stayed there a second too long, his thumb by her chin, causing all the air to expel from her lungs.

She looked up to his throat, only inches from her lips. She wanted to kiss it, to wrap her arms around his large body and have him hold her. To hold him. It was so cold she could see her breath. So cold their breaths mingled together, and for some reason, she stepped closer.

She wasn’t sure if it was his warmth that drew her in. The heat that radiated from his muscles and bones. Or if it was the pain in his eyes. It seemed to say a thousand words all on its own. That he was sorry, that he was scared, too. But it wasn’t an average “I’m sorry.” It was a sorry from a man who carried the world on his shoulders—who took the blame for everything, even when it wasn’t his fault. Her mind screamed to move away. To not get too close to the man who had shattered her heart after only one night, to get away before it was too late, but she couldn’t. She craved to be close to him, even though she knew it would bring nothing but pain to too many people.

He placed his hand on her hip, wrapping his fingers around her lower back and exerting pressure. As though he needed her just as much as she needed him. As though he’d given up on resisting her and the gravity that pulled them together.

She lifted her chin, knowing it was wrong, but knowing she couldn’t stop it. Whatever was between them was stronger than her will. Stronger than her conscious. But as their lips touched for the briefest moment, a set of dull headlights began to shine in the distance. As though a higher being had rushed in to save her from herself.

Tristan turned around, clearing his throat as if he himself had been caught in the same spell. He took his phone out of his pocket and waved it overhead. “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey! Over here!”

A moment later, down the long flat road, came a beat up old van with a million stickers on the windows. The door opened, and a woman with a large pregnant belly hopped down to the road. She rested her hands on her lower back, exaggerating the ripe, swollen shape, and shined a bright flashlight over their faces, blinding them.

“Now what in the devil’s name are you two doin’ all the way out here?”