Hey Jude (Lennox Valley Chronicles #1)

He gives me a look but says nothing.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Look, ever since the robbery… It just helps me feel safer, okay?” I let out a frustrated groan. “Ugh, where are those keys?” I sweep all my belongings back into my purse with my forearm and scan the apartment.

“You mean those keys?”

I freeze. My eyes snap up to his, then quickly follow his gaze to the nearby counter—where Nat’s keys are sitting in plain sight. Because of course they are. I huff out an exasperated breath, then dive over to snatch them up. I whirl around to leave, jamming them into my pocket.

“Wish me luck!” I call over my shoulder.

“Kisses, vibes, colors and light, babe!” Wyatt croons, raising his voice as I make my hasty escape down the hall.

* * *

Pulling onto the highway, I take several breaths in an effort to steady myself after my frenetic exit from our apartment. Eyes on the road, I reach into the Purse of No Return and feel a crinkle of paper; finally, an object is where it’s supposed to be. I hold the small note against the top of the steering wheel and squint, my eyes shifting back and forth between the scribbled directions and the highway. I can’t decide if I enjoy or resent the handwritten directions, but I have no choice but to use them as the rural property wasn’t searchable when I tried using my phone.

“Right on Blackriver Road,” I read out loud, “left on Elmwood Avenue, then right again on Dogwood Road. Follow it all the way up until you see a sign that reads ‘Faulkner’ on your right.”

Okay, I can do this, I think to myself. I am a professional adult, I am good at what I do, and I can take on a big project. Mr. Faulkner—Charles—was so kind so this’ll be fine. I’m fine. This is fine.

The sun is bright but, I notice with mild concern, dark gray clouds are gathering up ahead. They look ominous. I realize I completely forgot to check the weather forecast before I left this morning. That would have required foresight, you bonehead, I grouse to myself. That’s what proper adults do: check the weather forecast and choose sensible attire accordingly.

Not me, apparently. I glance over at the light jacket I brought and frown.

Two quick flashes of bright light in my rear-view mirror pull my attention away from the weather. I flick my eyes up and see a large, forest green pickup truck following behind me, closer than I’m comfortable with. From my comparatively low vantage point, I can’t see much other than the front grill. I frown again, returning my eyes to the road and sliding the wrinkled note paper into the cup holder beside me. I check my side-view mirror to see if I can get a look at the driver. The sun is behind us, and I can’t decipher much beyond a vague man shape. I bite my lip and keep driving.

Tiny raindrops pepper my windshield and a shadow quickly envelops the car, as if all the warmth and light suddenly got sucked down an invisible drain. Ah, shit. I turn on the wipers as the rain picks up quickly.

I try to ignore the guy riding my ass, relieved when I see my exit up ahead: Blackriver Road. Good. At least this shithead will get off my tail. I flick on the turn signal.

Seeing his matching turn signal flashing in my mirror, I roll my eyes. What is this guy’s problem? I do not have time for this. As we slow down along the exit ramp, he flashes his lights once more, derailing me again.

“Oh my God, what?” I grit out through clenched teeth. “Why won’t you just pass me already?” I ask out loud, like the empty car will give me an answer.

Some women might get nervous about being followed by a strange man in a dark truck, but I’m so keyed up with nerves already that this guy is straight-up pissing me off. I’ve gone from anxiety mode into anger mode like a video game character getting a power-up.

Huge raindrops splat against my windshield as though a rain cloud from a cartoon is suddenly dumping its contents here and only here. It’s getting harder to see where I’m going and I click the wipers up to full speed. Distraction and anger nagging at me, I find myself repeatedly glancing at my mirrors, trying to figure this guy out.

Squinting quick glances at my crumpled-paper copilot, I prepare to make the left on Elmwood. A fresh wave of exasperation hits me when the asshole honks his horn behind me.

Are you kidding me? I am so done with this jackass and I do not need this stress right before arriving at work. I complete the turn and pull over to the side of the road, fuming. Readying myself to watch him pass me, I imagine his self-important, big dickhead truck roaring around my inconvenient little car and tearing down the street. Instead, I’m met with the crunch of gravel as he pulls over behind me.

Shit.

I twist in my seat and scowl over my shoulder. The rain is too intense to see anything through the bleary back window. Turning back around, I take a deep breath and let out a string of profanities as my fingers dig into the steering wheel. Am I really going to have to get out and face this prick?

Muttering to myself, I snatch up my coat, fighting to coordinate arms, sleeves, and my wayward hair within the tiny space between the seat and the steering wheel. I yank up the hood with a grumble, not bothering to put on my scarf. I didn’t even bring an umbrella. I can feel the weather forecasters laughing at me.

I swing open the door and heavy rain pelts my thighs. Stepping out and slamming the door in one surprisingly coordinated movement, I whirl around and stalk back toward the truck, my arms out at my sides in the universal sign of “what?” with a hefty side of “the fuck?”

The truck door opens and a large black umbrella emerges, followed by its owner.

“Hey, what the hell is your problem?” I yell. “You’re flashing your high beams and honking at me?” I fling an arm behind me in an exaggerated gesture in the general direction of my car—Nat’s car. “I’m going to be late for work and I—”

My words falter as he lifts his umbrella and I stop, a few feet separating us. The rain splats loudly against my jacket’s hood and soaks rapidly through my sleeves. I blink at him, my mouth frozen open as I try and fail to finish my forgotten sentence. My rage ebbs for a beat as I take him in.

He’s… impossibly gorgeous. Intense green eyes look out at me from under tousled, dark brown hair. A trim beard covers a square jawline that’s clenching slightly. And the size of him. Standing at least six foot three, he has the build of a lumberjack; his broad, muscular chest and arms are just missing the suspenders and chainsaw. Otherwise, the look would be complete. He’s wearing well-worn jeans and a dark gray t-shirt with a warm-looking blue flannel jacket overtop. His rolled-up sleeves reveal large hands and strong, tattooed forearms.

Fuck.