“Hallie? Are you OK?”

Max’s voice is panicked. I groan, and then stretch, testing my limbs, my neck. Aside from the pain where my seatbelt is cutting into my chest, I’m fine.

“It’s all good,” I manage. The only part out of whack is my heart thumping away at five times its usual speed.

I drag in a deep breath. “Did we miss the deer?”

“I think so.”

“Well, at least we don’t have to deal with Bambi’s untimely death on our conscience.” I start to laugh, as much out of shock as anything. “This day just wasn’t exciting enough. You had to throw a car crash into the mix.”

Max exhales, then chuckles. “Believe me, I’m done with excitement now. Give me a nice, boring, warm bed.”

“And a cup of cocoa,” I agree.

I ease open the door and step out. The whole front half of the car is tipped into the ditch, its rear up in the air. Max braces his hands against the hood and shoves, but I’m not at all surprised when it doesn’t budge. He pulls out his cellphone, then grimaces. “And of course there’s no reception in the backwoods of Virginia.”

I look around, but the road is empty. “So what do we do now?”

“Now, we walk,” Max sighs.

I glance up and down the dreary road. The rain has faded to a drizzle, but it’s still spitting on my face. “Walk to where?”

“There’s a town farther down this road. And maybe someone will come by who’ll let us hitch a ride.”

I look at him in his tux and me in my cutoffs, and have to laugh again. “Good thing we dressed for a hike.”

We grab our bags out of the back and set off down the road. I figure we’ll be walking for hours before someone comes along, but it’s only ten minutes before the sound of an engine arrives. “Score!” I exclaim, turning to look for the car.

Except it’s not a car. It’s a massive eighteen-wheeler truck, fender rusty and hood dented, rumbling up the road like a prowling monster.

Max waves it down, and the truck pulls to a stop beside us. The driver shoves the door open and narrows his eyes at us.

If this were a horror movie, this is the part where we’d get chopped up by the homicidal lumberjack.

“Need a ride?” the trucker-lumberjack asks in a friendly voice.

I think I might prefer walking, but Max apparently knows no fear. “That’d be great, if you’ve got room,” Max says. “Just into town. We had a little encounter with a deer.” He waves toward the crashed car.

The guy nods as if this is par for the course out here in the Virginia wilds. Which maybe it is. “Squeeze on in, then. It’s about half an hour down the road.”

To my relief, Max gets in first, so it won’t be me squished right up against the giant. As I clamber in after him, the trucker twists to offer his hand. “I’m Carl, by the way.”

His half-buttoned lumberjack shirt falls open over a T-shirt that’s . . . pastel pink. And sparkly. A couple of winged horses are frolicking across the chest.

“Um, hi, Carl. I’m Hallie,” I say. I can’t help staring at the shirt. Carl glances down and chuckles.

“I’ve got a five-year-old daughter back home,” he says. “HUGE My Little Pony fanatic. She insisted we get father-daughter T-shirts.”

Okay, maybe he’s not a terrifying serial killer after all.

Carl plays the My Little Pony soundtrack for us all the way into town. “I know it’s a kids show,” he says, “but some of the lyrics are actually really deep.”

Max and I exchange a look, and I try not to laugh.

Five songs later—complete with sing-along from Carl—I’m just about ready to howl. Luckily, we pull into a parking lot at a bar with a run-down motel next door.

“This is your best bet to crash for the night around here,” Carl says, waving goodbye. “Safe travels tomorrow to you. And don’t forget that friendship is magic.”

The truck pulls away, and finally, I can let out the laughter I’ve been holding back for forty miles. “My little ponies?” I snort, shaking.

“Friendship is magic!” Max howls.

Finally, my hysterics fade, and I can take in the run-down, puke-green lobby of the motel. “Um, Max? Did we take a detour to the Bates Motel?”

He turns. “Drink first?”

“Yes, please.”

We head to the bar, instead. Inside, it’s divey as hell—but warm and dry. The lighting casts an amber glow over the beat-up wooden tables, and the whole place smells like beer and peanuts. But I’m hungry enough that even the peanut smell gets my mouth watering.

The bartender gives our clothes an amused look. “Take a wrong turn, did you?”

“Something like that,” Max agrees. We order burgers and extra fries, and a couple of beers, and settle in at a corner booth. For the first few minutes, all I can do is inhale charred beef and toasted bun. It’s actually one of the best hamburgers I’ve ever had. One point to Wherever The Hell We Are, Virginia.

When I come up for air, Max is grinning at me. “What? A girl’s gotta eat.”

“And you do know how to eat,” he says teasingly. “Don’t worry. I like a woman who isn’t afraid to satisfy herself.”

My eyebrows jump higher. “Interesting. Most men are intimidated by that. You know, afraid of not measuring up.”

Max’s grin grows. “I like a challenge.”

I flush. Suddenly all I want to do is grab him and haul him next door to that sketchy motel. As long as the door locks, I’m good.

I look around, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in my belly. My eyes land on the pool table across the bar. “Want to play?” I blurt. “Pool, I mean,” I add quickly.

“Is that a challenge?” Max looks amused.

“Take it any way you want.”

And take me, too. Ahem.

We head across the room, and I shrug off Max’s jacket. When I turn around, Max’s eyes linger on my neckline for a moment before jerking back to my face. He reaches for a pool cue, the muscles in his arms flexing against his dress shirt.

Okay, forget hot. I’m outright scorching now.

I know I should call it a night before things get out of control, but that itch of curiosity is burning and I don’t want to back off yet. Every moment with Max has turned into a madcap adventure, the kind I’ll probably never have again.

I want him. He’s made it pretty damn clear he wants me. And way out here in the middle of nowhere, nobody has to know if maybe, just maybe, we let things go a little too far . . .

I reach for a pool cue, sliding my fingers up and down its length. “Cue up?”

“My pleasure,” Max says in a voice that sends a shiver up my spine.

I lean low over the table when I take my first shot. Lower than I really need to, let’s be honest. Even a modest tank top can show off plenty of cleavage if you know how to work it right.

“Clean break.” Max sounds impressed. “You’ve played before.”

“Just a little,” I lie. I hustled my way through college, but he doesn’t have to know. Yet.

Max approaches the table, rolling up his cuffs over his lean forearms and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. I’m not sure I’ve ever found anything more tempting than that V of sculpted tan chest.

Then he sinks three balls in quick succession, and I realize I need to pay attention to the table if I don’t want to crash out of this game.

I’m trying to line up a tricky shot when Max comes up beside me. He sets a hand on my waist, its heat seeping through the cotton, and leans close.

“Let me help you out with this one.”

I want to tell him I’m just fine on my own, thanks, but I want him to stay right there even more. “Please, go ahead.”

He slides his hand up my side and adjusts the position of my arm. My breath catches in my throat. He lets his fingers rest there on my bare shoulder, his thumb tracing a blazing line over my skin. “The right position is so important.”

“At least as much as the size of your stick?” I suggest sweetly.

He laughs. “Take the shot.”

God, how can I concentrate with him so there? I inhale and line up the cue. I shift my hips a little to the left so my ass grazes the fly of Max’s pants. This time it’s his breath that catches. I smile and smack the ball.

It sinks cleanly into the pocket.

“You’re a tough competitor,” Max says as we straighten up. If there was a spark in his eyes earlier, it’s spread into a full-out blaze.

“I play to win,” I say, chalking up my tip of my stick. “And winner takes all.”

“My kind of game.”

I run the table until I miss a tough angle, and then Max takes over, until there are just a couple of stripes left on the table. A sensible player would attack them each in turn, but I should have guessed, nothing about Max Carlisle is sensible. He lines up a shot to sink both of the remaining balls in one—and misses by a millimeter. Leaving the table in the perfect arrangement for me. I sent my last balls slamming into the pockets and then give him a smile.

He laughs. “So, winner. What are you going to take?”

Damn, is he trying to turn me on? My gaze travels down his body. Lust flips my stomach. And maybe it’s the pneumonia, or the three beers talking, or maybe it’s just the sexual tension between us finally at a boiling point, but I don’t care about the rules anymore.

“You,” I answer, meeting his eyes. “I’m taking you, over to that motel for the night.”