What I Should’ve Said

Norah

“Put on your seat belt so I can start driving.” His voice is eerily quiet, and I swear, his jaw ticks with each word.

“Oh. Right.” My cheeks heat with discomfort. “Sorry.”

Sheesh. Tough crowd in here.

Quickly, I buckle my seat belt, and he shifts the engine into drive and takes off toward town. The sound of the door lock engaging makes my eyes widen with a little bit of worry, but I don’t say anything. This man has, against all odds, agreed to give me a ride, and I don’t want to be rude.

Though, he’s not exactly rolling out the red carpet for me. Goodness knows, I’ve apologized at least fifty times without him offering any sort of acceptance and introduced myself without any response in return.

I don’t even know his name.

And yet you’re sitting in his truck…

Discreetly, I glance over toward my nameless driver and note the way his dominating, strong frame commands attention behind the wheel. My eyes flit down his prominent biceps, over the veins of his forearms, and they don’t stop until they land on where his big hands grip the steering wheel. The splotches of dried pastel-colored paint still mar his skin. But my eyes notice something else that’s etched in black ink across the skin of his left ring finger. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FindNøvᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

A tattoo. Three letters are all I can make out—S-u-m.

Sum?

Or at least that’s what I think it spells out. It’s hard to tell without leaning in for a closer look.

What in the heck does Sum mean? Is he obsessed with math? Or is it some kind of secret tattoo for a woman?

God bless any woman who would be able to put up with this guy.

Curiosity is a near choke hold around my neck, but I promptly clamp my mouth shut. It doesn’t take a genius to understand the less I say around him, the better. Plus, it’s not like he’d actually respond. He appears to be highly skilled in avoiding conversation or coming across as anything that’s remotely close to friendly and amicable.

Silence stretches between us like a newborn baby waking up from a nap. And it continues for a good five minutes as he drives us toward the center of town.

Though, for all three hundred seconds of the silence, my people-pleaser mind won’t stop racing with possible things I can say to thaw out the frigid quiet and make him not be so dang surly.

I come up with exactly zero things.

And as downtown Red Bridge starts to come into view, I notice his shoulders tensing out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t allow myself to consider the reasons why he might be feeling so aggressive.

I mean, I—

“I guess you have no sense of self-preservation, huh?”

My head jerks toward him like a whip. “Excuse me?”

“Getting in a truck with a complete stranger and letting him lock you in without even acknowledging it? That’s fucking stupid.”

“But you said—”

“I don’t care what I said or how desperate you are. You never do this again. You could’ve wound up dead or worse, you understand?”

I hate being lectured. It reminds me of my mother. Lecturing me about my life decisions is one of her favorite hobbies. Or at least, it was, until I turned into a runaway bride and left the man she wanted me to marry at the altar.

“Did you hear what I said?” the macho, lecture-loving grump spits, and his words might as well be the match to my flame.

What is this guy’s problem? If giving me a ride pissed him off this much, then he shouldn’t have done it. It’s not like someone was putting a gun to his head. He offered of his own volition.

“Now is when you confirm you understand hitchhiking a ride is a stupid fucking thing to do,” he adds through a clenched jaw while keeping his eyes on the road.

Okay, yeah. I’ve had enough of this guy’s bullshit.

Red-hot anger pulsates inside me until it finds its preferred exit out of my body—through my big, fat mouth.

“Listen here, bucko. I don’t need a lecture from some random muscle man!” I slap both of my hands down onto my thighs. “I need a ride to my sister’s house. So, either give it to me and shut up, or let me out here.”

On the one hand, I’m proud of myself for standing up to a bully for once. On the other, I wish I would’ve said just a little less.

Not even ten seconds later, the truck rocks to a hard stop.

His door swings open, and my suitcase hits the sidewalk before I can shove my foot any deeper into my mouth.

And all I can do is climb out willingly—scared of what my lack of cooperation might cause—and watch as he drives off in a cloud of speedy dust.

Way to go, Norah. You’ve officially started this new adventure in Red Bridge with a fan.