Chapter 1

Adelaide

“You could’ve stayed for lunch, Addi,” my mother chastises into my earpiece.

My lips flatten, and I gauge my words before speaking. “I have a ton of things to get done. Mid-terms are a week away, and I’m nowhere near ready for any of them.”

“Even college students have to eat.”

I sigh, knowing she’s right. I should’ve stayed for lunch, but listening to my father urge me to find a “good, Christian man” to share my life with isn’t something I can tolerate today. Plus, I had a sinking feeling when my mom kept smiling at Gabriel Scott—Gabe, if his parents aren’t around—at the church service this morning. He drives home from Divinity School, only an hour away in Atlanta, to visit his parents every weekend, the ever-dutiful son. Five years my senior, Gabe is the picture-perfect man for me, according to my parents. He’s always given me the creeps, though—something I’d never share with them.

“I’ll grab something before heading to the library,” I appease. “I’m not gonna starve, Momma. I promise.”

“I still don’t understand why you chose to move out. The college is only a half hour commute from the house.”

Ugh. This old song and dance. She makes it sound like I moved a million miles away to live alone with a hundred cats. I live with my two older sisters in a nice house a couple blocks from campus.

“Mom,” I grumble, trying to keep my focus on the air flowing in from the open window as I cruise down the interstate. I’m twenty-one, wrapping up my junior year at college, and even though my parents haven’t tried to stop me from living my life the way I want, they make their opinions about it very clear—and very often.

“Damn it,” I shout as my ten-year-old Corolla jerks to the right and begins to make an awful noise. I try to swallow around the lump of fear as the shakiness in my hands and the steering wheel makes the car difficult to maneuver to the shoulder of the road. The grinding and scraping coming from the back passenger side of the car makes my foot tremble as I press on the brakes. Safe on the side of the road, I hang my head, leaning against the steering wheel and trying to catch my breath.

“Adelaide Rose Hatfield! Watch your mouth, young lady!” I cringe at the use of my full name, forgetting she was even on the phone.

A quick glance in the rearview mirror reveals the lack of concern of other drivers. They fly by, not even slowing or being cautious. I put the car in gear again and drive forward a few more feet, angling the vehicle farther into the grass.

“I have a flat. I have to go.”

Before she can go into her spiel about me losing my religion when I decided to go to school rather than marry a man from the church, have babies, and stick close to home like they did, I hang up. As the daughter of a third-generation pastor, even “damn it” is cause for adding my name to the prayer list in hopes of saving my soul.

Before I get the car back into park, my phone dings with a text from my mom, and I roll my eyes.

Mom: Tell me where you are. I’ll send your dad.

I text her back immediately, letting her know I’m more than capable of changing a tire and my father’s presence isn’t needed.

Why did he force me to learn how to take care of my car if he’s just going to come to my rescue whenever I have an issue? I think his lessons on fixing flats and changing the oil were meant to be a deterrent when he made them a requirement before we started driving, but it never stopped me. I don’t enjoy doing it, but that doesn’t mean I’m not capable.

I sigh as I climb out of the car, mentally preparing myself to change a tire in a sundress and cardigan, grateful today is giving way to the first signs of spring in an otherwise dreary winter.

My frustration grows quickly as I make it to the back of the car without my keys and have to go back, pull them from the ignition, and use them to open the trunk.

“Why am I saving all my money from work?” I mumble as I pull the spare tire from the trunk and bounce it along the grass before leaning it against the car and going back for the jack.

Doing my best to situate the jack where it belongs, I’m quickly reminded I only did this once back in high school.

Trying not to focus on the two lanes of busy interstate traffic, my mother’s words about staying for lunch filter back through my mind. Once again, just like every other time in my life, she’s right.

I take a calming breath, trying not to lose my cool and yell—or worse, call my father to come help. Pulling my hair back with the elastic band permanently residing on my wrist, I crouch lower, finally managing to get the jack exactly where I remember my dad showing me years ago.

The sound of a car door closing registers, but I pay it no mind. This is Georgia—sweet, southern, and helpful to a fault. I knew someone would stop, I was just hoping I’d be wrapping up before they did. Less than a minute later, worn cowboy boots come into view from the end of my car. Thankful he keeps his distance, I don’t bother looking up.

“You need some help there, darlin’?”

I ignore the deep, and admittedly sexy, tone of his voice and focus more on the repulsive pet name. Being from the south, it’s overused, and most days seems misogynistic and belittling, even when the intentions aren’t as such.

“What, because I’m a woman, you think I can’t change a tire?”

His throaty chuckle almost has me looking up, but frustration wins out.

“No,” he begins, “because your dress keeps flying up. As much as I don’t mind seeing those modest, little cotton panties while driving down the road, you’re gonna cause a wreck.”

I clasp at my dress with two dirty hands to get it under control, not realizing the wind was making it possible for motorists to see my business. My gaze darts up, and I gasp again. Familiar hazel eyes and golden brown hair fill my line of sight. I move to take a step back, only to stumble on my own feet and sprawl on my backside on the shoulder of Interstate 75. I thought the bottom of my dress flapping was bad, but that has nothing on it whipping over my head in front of a guy I stalk online regularly.

Refusing his proffered hand, I get my clothes set straight and my feet back under me.

“I’ve got it,” I mumble, crouching again and making sure the back of my dress is tucked between my thighs and calves.

“You’re making me look bad, sweetheart.”

Please stop talking. You’re making me dislike you, and I never wanted that to happen.

“I’ve got it,” I grunt, trying to loosen the first lug nut.

When it doesn’t budge, I try harder, and my hand slips off the lug wrench, my knuckle screaming in pain as it rubs on a rough part of the rim. Whimpering, I jerk my hand back, adding a spot of blood to the already soiled dress.

“Stop,” he says, grabbing my injured hand and bringing the wound to his mouth.

My eyes wide, I tug my fingers away from his mouth. “Why would you do that?”

I look down at the abrasion as a tiny amount of blood wells up.

“Don’t you have a fear of disease? That’s gross,” I say, shriveling my nose in disgust.

His smirk would be adorable if it weren’t patronizing and directed toward me.

He shrugs. “I figured I’d have nothing to worry about from a girl in white cotton panties.”

Narrowing my eyes at him, I grab the lug wrench and start over, ignoring the throbbing in my hand. On an exaggerated huff, I finally manage to get one lug nut off.

“This is going to take all damn day, sweetheart. I can get us off the side of the road to somewhere much more comfortable in half the time.”

“Can you quit?” I ask, my eyes never deterring from my work.

“Offering to help? I’m a nice guy, darlin’. So, I guess the answer is no.”

Exasperated, I toss the lug wrench into the dirt. “Quit with the ridiculous pet names.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “I don’t think I can quit that either, beautiful.”

I huff a humorless laugh, but I’m almost melting inside at that last one, which ticks me off even more. “How about I let you change the tire and you keep quiet? Then, we’ll both be happy. You can get back on your way faster, and you’ll be too busy to talk.”

A victorious smirk marks his beautiful face as he grabs the tool. Setting a quick pace, he removes the flat tire and replaces it with the spare.

“I know you know who I am,” he says, his tone casual. “I saw the recognition flash in your eyes when you first saw me.”

“And?” How is that the best you can come up with? I cross defiant arms over my chest, until I realize I’ve caught his eyes.

“And, since you know who I am, it’s only fair I get your name.” After placing the flat in my trunk, he brushes off his hands on his stylishly ripped jeans.

I just stare at him, unsure how to proceed. The light scruff on his jawline has me mesmerized, and the way the sun glints in his more green than brown hazel eyes makes me want to stay lost forever.

When he reaches up and his fingers, calloused from hours of playing the guitar, brush my cheek, the trance is broken. Stunned at his forwardness, I take a step back.

He holds up his hand, revealing a smudge of grease. “You have streaks down your face and neck.”

“Thanks,” I mumble before turning to get back in my car. “For the tire.”

“Wait. You didn’t tell me your name.”

I close myself in the car, hating how I was riding with my window down before the flat. It gives him the opportunity to lean inside, preventing me from driving away without taking his head clean off. Several thousand fans wouldn’t be happy with me.

His cologne hits my nose, and I begin to breathe through my mouth. He smells of sin and bad decisions—a temptation I have no business even considering.

“There’s a party next weekend. You should be there.”

“Mid-terms are the week after,” I counter.

“Exactly. Sort of like a pre-celebration.” He grins, and I almost forget he’s the most popular guy on campus, known for his musical talent and way with women. “To give everyone good luck.”

“Ridiculous,” I say, cranking the car. “They’d have better luck spending that time actually studying than getting drunk at some frat house.”

“It’s at Old Man Henry’s farm if you can pull those pretty eyes away from the books long enough.”

I nod, feeling like an idiot.

“Here,” he says, all but bending halfway into my car and invading my space.

I watch, stunned as he grabs a pen and napkin from my center console.

He jots something down and hands both back over. “My number, in case you get stranded on the side of the road again.”

“So you can rescue me?” I don’t even manage to keep the disdain from my voice.

“No,” he answers with a wide smile. “So I can drive by and see your panties again.”

Winking, he taps the doorframe with his massive hands, then walks back to his truck.

“Fat dang chance,” I mutter, driving away and sending more gravel and dirt flying than I intended.