NOT YOUR TYPE

If the man in your life hurls a bottle of alcohol at the sixty-five-inch TV in your living room, that’s usually your cue to accept the relationship is over. To be fair, I probably should’ve accepted it much earlier—around the time his coffee mug started smelling like beer, even at breakfast.

“If you walk out that door, don’t ever come back, Lola!”

The crash of the beer bottle barely drowned out Brett’s roar. A shard of glass grazed my forehead, and I jerked back on instinct, but I didn’t look at him.

“That’s kind of the whole plan, Brett,” I said, praying my voice wouldn’t shake. I gripped the strap of my bag until my knuckles turned white. “The never-coming-back part.”

“You’re nothing without me!” he shouted after me.

I heard his footsteps, but they weren’t coming toward me. They were heading for the oak coffee table in the middle of the living room. I jumped when it hit the floor with a deafening crash, sending everything on top of it flying.

“Do you hear me? You’re nobody!”

I didn’t answer. I snatched up my car keys and bolted out the door.

People always say time slows down during the worst moments of their lives. Mine was playing at double speed, like some ridiculous action movie I’d somehow been cast as the lead in.

I didn’t look back. I don’t even remember how I got down the stairs. I just hit the gas. Somewhere between the flying beer bottle and the overturned coffee table, Brett had officially become my ex. All I wanted was to get as far away from him, that house, and all the broken glass as possible.

I drove for three hours until my long-suffering Honda finally gave up in the middle of the scorching Nevada desert and started belching black smoke from under the hood.

I barely managed to wrestle it onto the gravel shoulder. I slumped over the steering wheel and tried to drag in a deep breath, but my hands were shaking like crazy. I was circling the edge of a panic attack, and I needed the shaking to stop.

I lunged for the glove compartment, dug the last strawberry lollipop out of my emergency stash, tore off the wrapper, and shoved it into my mouth. My coping skills might’ve been on par with a kindergartner’s, but at least it gave my trembling lips something to do.

I checked the thin streak of dried blood on my forehead in the rearview mirror. “What a truly perfect day,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. “First I’m homeless, and now I’m stranded in the desert.”

That was when a vehicle appeared. A huge black truck with a small silver camper hitched behind it cut through the cloud of dust and pulled over just ahead of my Honda.

The door opened, and a man climbed out.

I might’ve been in the middle of a serious emotional crisis, but I wasn’t blind.

Sunglasses. Dark, messy hair. A gray T-shirt that fit his shoulders suspiciously well. Worn jeans. He stepped onto the asphalt with the kind of confidence that suggested the entire desert belonged to him.

He slid his hands into his pockets and strolled toward my window. I lowered it halfway and shifted the lollipop to the corner of my mouth.

“Need some help?” he asked. “That smoke doesn’t look promising.”

“Are you a fugitive, or roadside assistance?”

He looked at me over the top of his sunglasses. One corner of his mouth curled in a way that felt vaguely dangerous.

“If I were a fugitive, I wouldn’t hang around a broken-down Honda in the middle of the desert.”

His voice was caramel melting on hot asphalt. Teasing, easy, and way too confident for someone I’d known for all of twelve seconds.

“Good,” I said with a shrug. “Because I don’t have the energy to beat you with a stick.”

“That was exactly what I was afraid of,” he said with a grin. He nodded toward the front of the car. “So, how’s your day going?”

“My engine just decided to kill itself. What do you think?”

“Let me take a look.”

He walked around to the front of the car. He pushed up his sleeves and reached for the hood, only to snatch his hand back from the heat rolling off the engine. “Too hot. And I can’t work under this hellish sun like this.”

Then, as casually as if people did this every day, he grabbed the hem of his gray T-shirt, pulled it over his head in one smooth motion, and tossed it onto the hood of his truck.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.

My brain completely short-circuited. Six-pack abs. Broad shoulders. A very defined V disappearing into his jeans. Tiny beads of sweat glinting against his tanned skin.

God.

Was that legal?

“You can stare. I don’t mind,” he said, sounding far too entertained as he bent toward the pavement.

“I’m not staring,” I lied. “I’ve always enjoyed anatomy. This is purely scientific research.”

A short, low laugh slipped out of him. “Happy to support science. I’m Tyler. Tyler Dean.”

“Lola,” I said, swallowing with some effort. “Lola Popp.”

Tyler was about to slide under the car when he suddenly stopped. Still crouched on the ground, he tipped his head up at me. He lowered his sunglasses just enough for his dark brown eyes to lock on mine. He looked at me, then at the lollipop between my lips, then back at me. His eyebrows climbed.

“Lola Popp?” he said slowly, sounding out every syllable. “And you’re seriously eating a lollipop right now?”

I pursed my lips. “If you’re going to make fun of my name, you can put the shirt back on, Dean.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” he said, though the curve at the corner of his mouth was doing a terrible job of backing him up. “It’s just… someone named Lola Popp standing around with a lollipop…” He tilted his head. “Tell me, is this some kind of personal branding thing?”

“It’s how I deal with stress.” I moved the lollipop to the other side of my mouth. “And you’re not exactly in a position to judge me. You’re half naked under my car.”

“I’m not half naked. I took off my shirt.”

“Sure. And I’m just holding the lollipop.”

He let out a short laugh. “I’m trying to help you here, Lola Popp.”

“Then talk less and fix more, Dean.”

“Tyler.”

“Dean for now. Get the car running, and you can earn your first name back.”

His grin widened before he slid under the car. For the next few minutes, I listened to metal clanging against metal, several creative swear words, and Tyler’s muffled grunts. By the time my lollipop was almost gone, he slid back out and dusted himself off. I ignored the small wave of disappointment that washed over me when he pulled his shirt back on.

“Bad news,” he said, wiping his grease-blackened hands on a rag. “Something in the engine blew, and oil’s leaked everywhere. There’s no chance this baby’s getting out of here on its own.”

“Great. Now I’m stranded in the middle of the desert.”

Tyler leaned against the car and folded his arms across his chest. His gaze flicked to the dried streak of blood on my forehead for half a second, but he didn’t ask. “I can give you a ride,” he said, nodding toward the silver camper behind his truck. “Where were you headed?”

I hesitated. I couldn’t exactly tell him about Brett, the flying coffee table, or the half-drunk, furious man who might be coming after me. Trusting strangers was a terrible idea. Even if the stranger had unfairly impressive abs, I still didn’t know anything about him.

“My sister’s wedding,” I lied without so much as blinking. “In Telluride, Colorado. I’m already really late.”

“Colorado,” Tyler murmured. “Can’t say it’s on my way, but I don’t exactly have a route.”

“Where are you going?”

“Wherever the wind takes me,” he said with a careless little shrug. “Needed to clear my head, so I hit the road. I can take you to Telluride.”

I didn’t have another option. “Telluride would be amazing. I don’t want to hold you hostage, but—”

“Little late for that, Lola Popp,” he said, heading back toward his truck. “But we can’t leave your car right here. If the cops find it, you’ll have a mess to deal with.”

“What do we do?”

He pointed toward a rusted sign farther down the road. “We push it behind that abandoned gas station. It’ll be safe there until you can get a tow truck.”

Ten minutes later, thanks mostly to Tyler’s muscle power, we’d hidden the Honda where it couldn’t be seen from the road. I grabbed my things and climbed into Tyler’s truck. The leather seats were cool, and the cab smelled like mint and a faint trace of men’s cologne.

The second I shut the door, the phone in my pocket buzzed.

Holding my breath, I looked down at the screen. One tiny bar of service had appeared. A message from Brett glowed on the screen.

Brett: You seriously think you can run from me? Get back home right now, Lola.

My heart started pounding hard enough to crack my ribs. Tyler slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine came alive with a deep growl. When he looked over at me, the amusement in his eyes was gone. He was watching me carefully now. His gaze dropped to the trembling hands I had locked together in my lap.

“You ready?” he asked. This time, there was no teasing in his voice. Just something steady.

I locked the screen, tossed my phone into my bag, and took a deep breath.

“Drive, Tyler,” I said, praying my voice wouldn’t shake. I looked out the window and gave the life I was leaving behind one last glance.

“Just drive.”