"Hasn't anyone in this state heard of rock music?" I ask nobody in particular because I'm in a rental car all by myself on my way to Smokey Falls. My thumb is sore from pressing the scan button in search of anything other than country and western music, but I'm not having much luck. And it's not surprising, since my cell reception died about fifty miles ago, and my cell battery is too low to be using it for music. It's been the trip from hell. My first flight was delayed, and then my rebooked second flight was cancelled, leaving me in a cheap hotel in Detroit for the night before I could catch an early flight this morning.

I sure hope my difficulties aren't a sign of what my vacation's going to be like. Never did I expect my three best friends from college to all end up married, or mated as they say, and pregnant in a wolf pack. But last summer when we decided to go on an RV trip, everything changed. We found out Juliet was a werewolf, and she met the alpha of the Smokey Falls pack, who ended up being her true mate. My roommate and closest friend Jayden fell in love with Alex, a werewolf she calls her true mate too. I'm still not sure there is such a thing, but to make matters worse, a month after Jayden's wedding, Alisha returned to Smokey Falls and found her true mate. I managed to escape the cult and got a job screenwriting in Hollywood for a rock-star drama called Zip Code Star. Now in my close friend group, I'm the odd one out.

I yank hair out of my mouth as sweat drips off the tip of my nose. I’m in a wind tunnel because my economy vehicle doesn’t have air conditioning. “Damn it!” I grip the wheel tightly, as if I can keep it on the road by sheer force when a big rig flies by my left side. The driver lays on the horn, and I lift my hand to flip him off. Does he really think I’m going sixty on purpose? It's as if I stepped into the Land Time Forgot with this car.

How was I roped into spending a month hanging out with werewolves in the middle of nowhere anyway? It's not that I don't want to see my friends. I do miss them. It's just that I'd have preferred they come to visit me. I think they'd love it in California, and it might have shaken off the trance they're all in over this werewolf thing.

My new life is amazing. I thrive on the excitement of working with big-name producers, writers, directors, and actors. I go to glamorous parties and wear fabulous clothes. However, I'm not actually writing very much, since I'm only an assistant to the creator of the show until I prove my worth. And I have to admit, the pace of trying to keep up with my boss's crazy whims is insane. When the show I'm working on was given a month off and Alisha, Jayden, and Juliet insisted I come to them, I figured it made sense to see my friends in their lazy town and take a well-deserved break.

I punch the button on the radio to turn it off and squirm in my seat in a futile attempt to get comfortable. I think they gave me the cheapest car on the lot, because the top-of-the-line model I reserved wasn't available when I got to the airport. No cars were. But I pitched a major fit and managed to secure myself a sedan that redefines economy. I'm surprised it has a radio.

A sign announcing the exit for Smokey Falls along with amenities tells me I'm about ten miles away. It makes me glance down at the dash to see how I'm doing on fuel, and I notice I'm dangerously low. I decide I'll stop at the gas station before taking the long dirt road to where Juliet lives.

I glance over at the massive wall of rock that was blasted away for the road I'm traveling, and I scowl at it before I search once again for a radio station I want to listen to. I finally give up and go with country. As some woman sings about her broken heart, I glance in the rearview mirror and see a motorcycle gaining on me.

I watch for a moment before the loud roar of my wheels hitting the rumble strip makes me realize I've strayed onto the shoulder. This crappy car has been pulling to the right for a couple miles now, and my earlier anger returns. I yell, "Piece of junk!" as I yank the wheel to the left to move back into my lane again.

Movement in my side-view mirror makes me look out my window to discover the motorcycle has pulled up beside me, and the driver is a guy who keeps glancing at me. The fact that he's in the oncoming traffic's lane on a windy road makes my heartbeat quicken. He points as if he's telling me to pull over.

"Nice try, buddy." I'm no fool and have no intention of pulling over for a random stranger, even if he does have the cheekbones of a movie star. I try to ignore the guy, but the fact that a car or truck could be coming toward us at any moment is making me nervous. I slow down with the hope the motorcycle will pass me, but the man stays by my side, still motioning for me to pull over. I let out a huff of exasperation and turn to yell, "Go away!"

"You have a flat!"

I frown as I try to figure out if this guy is a persistent thief or if he's for real. I don't have time to ponder it for long, though, because as we approach the top of a hill, an eighteen-wheeler flies up over the crest. My heart jumps into my throat, and I let out a scream as I hit the brakes. Miraculously, the motorcycle manages to tuck in front of me just in time.

My car shudders as the truck whooshes by. "Holy crap!" I'm shaking as much as my car is now. Because the motorcycle kept going, I don't speed up again and decide it's safe to pull over to check out the tire. Heat rises from the dark highway surface, making me feel as if I’ve stepped into an oven when I get out and walk to the around the front of my car to look at the tires. When I get to the back, I discover that my rear passenger-side tire is as flat as a budding starlet’s chest when she first arrives in Hollywood. I clench my fists and resist the urge to let out a scream of frustration. Instead, I take a long breath in and let it out slowly to calm myself before I get back into the vehicle to find the rental paperwork so I can call the office.

To say I'm annoyed with the rental company is an understatement, but I do my best to find a polite voice when a woman named Mara answers. "Mara, this is Chelsea Shelton. I picked up a car from you a couple hours ago and just got a flat tire. I need roadside assistance, please."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Ms. Shelton. Where are you located?"

"I'm just outside of Smokey Falls. About ten miles, I think. On Highway 79."

"Oh. You're in Wolfden County. Hmm."

"I suppose I am." Anger begins to simmer in me as I recall how difficult getting a car was. Of course this isn't going to be easy either. "Is that a problem?"

"We don't service that area," says Mara.

"What?" I realize I've raised my voice and tamp it down. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Why not?"

"I'm not quite sure, actually."

I roll my eyes, because it's clear I didn't get the sharpest tool in the shed. "Okay, Mara. I understand. Can you please get me your supervisor?"

"He's going to tell you the same thing," she says as the whine of a motorcycle echoes off the rock ledges.

I squint to see one headed my way, and my stomach flips with the hope it’s the guy I saw earlier. The one with the movie-star face. I scowl when I remember he nearly got us both killed and just kept going, and I have to force my anger to stay in check so I don't rip into the girl who is not capable of reason. "Right. Just get him for me."

An elevator version of disco comes on as I'm put on hold, and my door groans when I open it to get out of my car again. As I step out, I discover the hot biker was indeed who I just saw as he pulls up behind me.

I call out to him as I walk over to the passenger side to stay safe from oncoming traffic. "If you're here to apologize for almost killing us both, you can change the flat and we'll call it good. I'm on the phone with the rental agency, but they're not very competent."

The man swings his leg over his motorcycle with the ease of someone who's tall and athletic, and I melt like a Popsicle on hot asphalt. He says, "You told me to go away, but then I decided you're the type who needs me."

He has full lips I’d be jealous of except for the fact everything else about his body is hard as a rock. When he begins to walk toward me, he scans me slowly up and down with his gaze and then gives me a smirk. "Quite the getup.” He pauses to lick his lips as if I’m a tasty morsel, which makes me want to bite my lips and let out a groan of desire. “For that car."

I snap back, "Didn't your momma teach you any manners?"

I glance down at my silk shift dress, which is a wrinkled mess. I'm sure with the sweating I've been doing, I have wet armpit rings too.

"Didn't your daddy teach you anything about cars?"

A small gasp at his reply escapes from me. I squint at him as my cheeks heat up, because with the way the car was acting, I was likely driving on a flat tire for miles. I give him my best condescending glare. "At least I know how to drive, which is more than I can say for you. You almost died back there."

"That's adorable. You were worried about me? I think you like me," he says as he keeps walking toward me. He flexes his biceps and looks at it. "But I happen to have incredible reflexes."

Great. I've got a cocky knight in black leather here to rescue me. Although he does wear it well. I take a moment to peruse the way the guy's pants are snug around his muscular thighs, and I back up as I'm connected to my call again. Mara says, "He's out to lunch. Would you like me to have him call you?"

The motorcycle guy stops walking a few feet from the back of my car, and I watch as he takes off his helmet. I nearly drop the phone when he shakes out a head of hair that's worthy of a shampoo commercial. My knees buckle a little before I give myself a mental slap and realize what the customer-service agent just said. And maybe it's the long travel day I've had or the fact a man with a death wish is making me lose my marbles and lust after him too, but something in me snaps. "No! No. No. No! I'm on the side of the road in your crappy-ass car that has a flat because of your lack of maintenance. Give me his supervisor!"

Mara must be afraid of me, because she doesn't reply, and canned music begins to play again.

The guy says, "To be fair, you could have driven over something that punctured it." He chuckles. "Not that you'd know. You were driving on that tire as if it was fine."

Before I have to admit he's right, a male voice comes on the line. "Miss Shelton, I hear you're having a bad day."

"Me! You think this is my fault?" I watch Hot Motorcycle Dude lift my trunk, and luggage thuds on the ground as he removes it. "Let me explain how this works, Mr.— I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"You can call me Steve."

"Steve. You're the one who's having a bad day. See, I was perfectly happy to drive off in the Mercedes convertible I reserved. But apparently one of your minions neglected to save it for me. So now I'm in something one step up from a kid's toy, and the tire is flat. This makes me one very unhappy customer. My question for you, Steve, is what are you going to do about it?"

"Well ma'am, my assistant tells me you're near Smokey Falls."

"That's correct."

"And our contract clearly states that— “

The man in leather has managed to find the jack and spare tire, and after he sets them down on the ground, he takes a moment to unzip his jacket to remove it. I watch intently as I notice his long fingers moving deftly.

"I don't give a flying— ah…" As leather slips off the guy's shoulders, it reveals a set of abs that take my breath away, and suddenly I want to weep with joy. And touch the man's rock-hard torso. Or lick it... "I mean— “ What was I saying? The guy has me completely enthralled as he reaches up to pull back his mane of hair into, sweet Jesus, a man bun! His movements show off his muscular arms and make me want to walk over and pull that hair tie right back out, run my fingers through his thick locks, and... He begins to sing softly.

Steve asks, "Miss Shelton?"

I turn my back on the hot guy as I shake my head and try to remember what I was saying. "Steve." I blink to clear my head a little more, because my rescuer's song is so enticing that I don't want to do anything but let it wash over me. I let out a sigh and let the music wrap around me like a wave of soothing water. Oddly, my anger fades to annoyance. "Steve. I get that for some ridiculous reason you've singled out Smokey Falls as a place where you refuse to offer roadside assistance. But I'm sure you can imagine how inconvenient that is for me." I glance over my shoulder to see that my scorching-hot rescuer appears to have the tire change under control, and I don't resist my urge to turn around and watch. "And because I have to fend for myself now, which means my reunion with my close friends has been delayed, I think you need to find a way to compensate me for my time, money, and aggravation."

"But of course," Steve says in a tone of relief that makes me think he believes he’s dodged a bullet. He did, because normally I'd be unleashing the last forty-eight hours of my frustration on him. "I'm prepared to cover the cost— “ Steve's voice fades away as my hero stands up. I notice how his pants hang low enough that I can see those V-muscles men in spectacular shape have, and I look to the heavens. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," say Steve and my motorcycle man in unison, and I smile, because my vacation just got one hundred percent better.