(In The Style Of) A Romance Novel

At 9:16 p.m., my car sputtered and gave its last breath.  Goddamn it, Laney!  How could you forget to get gas?  I sat in my car and called Triple A.  45 minutes.  That’s what the woman on the phone told me.  45 minutes until I would have assistance.

 

I flipped through my iPhone, checking my Facebook account, typing out a quick post about the dangers of forgetting gas in your car when I saw a set of headlights behind me.  The lights looked to be too low for a tow truck.   Shit.

 

They were stopping.  Seriously?  Keep going, weirdo.

 

Just then, there was a knock at my passenger side window.  Jesus!  I rolled it down one inch.  “Yeah?”

 

“Hi.  I just saw your flashers.  Do you need any help?”

 

“No, thank you.  I’ve called a service.”  I started to roll the window back up when I got a look at the man’s face.  He had rich, dark hair.  It was glossy and had a natural wave to it.  It hung a little long in the front, but wasn’t unruly.  Chiseled jawline, olive skin, black eyes.  Double yum.

 

“Are you sure I can’t stay with you until the tow comes?  It’s late and my mother taught me never to leave a damsel in distress.”  He smiled.  Look at those teeth, would you?

 

“Um… okay.  I’m Carrie.”  I rolled down the window one inch further and stuck my hand out of it awkwardly.

 

He took my hand in his.  A spark?  I could actually feel the electricity in the air.  “Preston.  Preston Chalmers, the Third.”

 

I had never met a “Third.”  It sounded rich.  Regal.  I let my mind wander to garden parties and tea on the veranda.  Surely, Preston had grown up with a fluffy, white dog and horses in the stables.  He had a maid and a high school sweetheart named Muffin.

 

“Enchantee, Mr. Chalmers.”  Surely, he spoke French.

 

“Toi aussi, Mademoiselle.”  Nailed it.

 

“I’m fine on my own, if you have somewhere to be.  I called the girl from Triple A and she said that it’s only going to be 45 minutes.”  I looked at my phone.  “They should be here in about fifteen.”

 

“I don’t mind waiting.”

 

It was cold outside.  Should I make him wait out there?  Surely, he would be warmer in here.  Right?  “Preston?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“It’s cold out there.  You might be warmer in here.”  I unlocked the automatic doors.  Preston reached for the handle of my ancient Honda Civic.  Stuck.  Of course.  “You’ve gotta put your ass into it.  Just give it a bump when you pull it.”

 

He leaned in and gave it a bump, my eyes glued to his backside.  Triple Yum.

 

Settling in next to me, he rubbed his hands furiously together.  They were rough and huge, calloused like he was a carpenter.  Surely, Preston had never done any manual labor in his life.

 

“So, Mr. Chalmers, what is it you do?”  I had to know now.  Could he be hot, rich and good with those things?

 

“I’m a builder.”  Yes!  “I design homes, but I’m more hands on.  I don’t mind getting a little dirty.”

 

I sighed and gave him a wink.  “Me neither.”