Jason's Hope: Lake Hope Book 4

Book 4: Lake Hope

by Mel Walker

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Holiday Romance; Small-town Romance; Friends to lovers; Clean & Wholesome Romance

Synopsis

One-night stands aren't supposed to be complicated. 

Workaholic Hollywood Director Amy lives life at 120 miles per hour. All she wishes for is to escape the hustle of LA for a quiet respite with a warm body for a day or so before hopping back into the whirlwind of her world. 

Jason, the small-town sexy personal trainer, is on every woman's shopping list for the holiday season. He, hoping to finally find a meaningful relationship, has committed to a new “hands-off” policy when it comes to one-night stands. 

The only problem, the impending snowstorm delivers a tantalizing visitor to his doorstep. Someone who will immediately threaten his rule.

Who will find their wishes granted and who will discover that hope is not a strategy?

Release date: March 18, 2021

Sample

Chapter One AMY

 

 

 

My skin pebbles in the refreshingly cool ocean breeze, yet I refuse to reach for the pink sweater on the seat next to me. It’s mid-December in the city of dreams, Los Angeles, which means my car top is up. The temperature remains in the upper sixties, and the only concession to the upcoming holiday is that the surfer boys on Venice Beach now match their board shorts with red Santa hats. I twist the wheel of my two-seater Tesla around a Mercedes to the valet station outside the River Point restaurant.

I don’t wait for the bow-tied valet to approach. I hop out, my hands bunching around my hair as I attempt to tame it, twisting my blonde locks, and laying them over my shoulder. I pull down my designer shades before the valet hands me the ticket. The buffed kid, like most of the service staff at these high-end restaurants, looks like he is a model or actor, his perfectly groomed hair, sky-blue eyes, and two-percent body fat a dead giveaway. That and the folded headshots sticking out his back pocket.

“Keep it near the front. This may be quick,” I instruct and turn before he can get a look at me. I push down the foreign feeling, still not use to my sudden notoriety. I’ve worked for Universal Studios in various positions for the last ten years, but the drastic change over the last year was unforeseen. Rather the extent of the metamorphosis was unexpected. I knew on some level that things would change after being an assistant director on a film. However, when the stars aligned and delivered us the hottest actor on the planet, Trace Edwards, our small, largely ignored project suddenly garnered the attention of everyone in the industry. Even then, I was still naïve to the level of impact one casting change would have on the production and everyone associated with it.

Forever, a small-town love story which I selected to cut my directorial teeth with somehow became a billion-dollar international phenomenon. The red-hot talent of Trace and unexpected repeat business of his female following pushed the film to heights not seen since Titanic. 

The high from that success led me to my directorial debut of a spy thriller which I’ve now wrapped, my agent wisely seizing on the moment with the purposeful selection, making sure I didn’t pigeonhole myself into the romance genre.

And just like that, a year has dissolved into a blur of TV interviews, international premiers, magazine features, studio events, and podcasts. My agent is backed up with offers from Netflix, Disney Plus, Amazon, and, of course, Universal.

A small documentary in Europe, based on a commitment I made before my career blew up, is in my immediate future. It’s a brief assignment which will allow me to stretch my creative wings, balance my portfolio, and provide an opportunity to decompress. I will stuff my suitcase with an ever-growing pile of scripts which continue to flood my agent’s inbox daily. I know my next project will be critical in defining my career. It’ll be the first time I’ll be selecting a project on my own—I’m sure the studio is pressuring my agent behind the scenes, but the final decision will finally be all mine. 

Hence my current situation.

I approach the picturesque restaurant, barely acknowledging the panoramic ocean view or the string quartet performing on the patio. Sitting on a hill overlooking Malibu Beach, the restaurant stands as another example as to how much has changed in my life.

With the postproduction wrap behind me and an endless pile of offers on the horizon, I have nearly forty hours free for the first time in forever. I approach the door, the staff holding it open for me, and I pull out my phone. I run my tongue across my bottom lip, already tasting the two margaritas I plan to start my dinner off with before moving on to the hard stuff.

I scroll through the phone, ignoring the text notification, and flip open my app. The photo of JetMan405 stares back at me, his blond hair a near match to mine, his green eyes still stopping me in my tracks, the one feature that caused my scrolling to cease. His shirtless picture straddling a Jet Ski is the other reason. I had clicked the hookup app before my mind could talk me out of it, and we set up this date all in a matter of five lust-filled minutes. 

It’s been that long.

Too long since I had a night off. Too long since I had a block of free time to enjoy. And way too long since I hooked up with a stranger. My freedom window is too short to chance a random bar hookup. JetMan405, a nameless desirable body based on our online discussions, is a guarantee. A nice dinner, a walk on the beach to digest, which will lead us to the beachfront hotel which I’ve already secured. If all goes to plan, I’ll be sending him on his way around 3:00 a.m. and get to sleep in without an alarm clock. The perfect evening awaits.

A California Christmas tree adorns the sparkling foyer as the hostess steps toward me. I’m only thirty-two years old, but she looks like a child. Another sign that reminds me the clock is ticking for me. It doesn’t feel like I’m aging, but everyone around me seems to get younger and younger. I give the fake name of the reservation which speaks more to my intent for the evening than my new social status.

The alcohol-fueled air is filled with clicking glasses, the smell of expensive perfume and privilege. One joy of becoming famous is that I no longer have to pretend when I play dress-up, the ultra-rich and the artistically poor sharing the same sense of style. I’m sporting a studio T-shirt of a cartoon donkey, matched with my good pair—meaning clean—jeans and flats. 

“Your guest has checked in already. He’s at the bar.”

I nod and float a smile. The hostess assumes it’s for her, but it’s really for me. JetMan arrived early enough to get settled at the bar—this is a good sign. It means his desire and needs align with mine. The second good sign is that the man at the bar is the man in the posted photos. Yep, it’s a thing. I’m still shocked men continue to do this, as if a woman upon learning of their deceit will just shrug and say we’re here already, why the hell not.

I turn toward the bar, attempting to peek over the shoulder of the men in front of me, when my phone buzzes. Rihanna’s warning via her anthem work, work, work tells me before I pick up that my evening plans are about to be disrupted.

“Cal? You got to be kidding me. Unless someone died, I didn’t expect to hear from you for at least forty-eight hours. I just left the studio.” A year ago, I would never have even carried this thought in my head, let alone voice it. Back then when the head of the studio called you, regardless of the hour, you dropped everything. Canceled your plans without thought and felt honored that he even knew your phone number. Like I said, a lot has changed in a year. 

“Sorry, Amy. I really am.” His normally mellow, soothing voice cracks with urgency; for a second, I think someone has died. My heart sprints and my mind races to places it shouldn’t as I wait for Cal to speak. “No one died, but our ABC special may be on life support unless we act quickly.”

My feet stop moving, and my gaze settles on the profile of JetMan. He is more gorgeous in person than his hot profile photo collection of two dozen poses. I’m no stunner, but I have an eye and a talent for photography and respect a properly chosen eye-candy photo.

My personal profile on the app comprises of one photo: a candid picture taken by a friend of mine back when I was a location scout. Me kneeling on one knee, camera hanging around my neck, staring out at something in the distance, a slight breeze lifting my hair away from my face. The one photo says more about me than anything I can ever describe. Which is good because I fill the rest of my profile with generic answers that could fit any woman my age.

JetMan is just five years younger than me, but based on the limited chat, we are worlds apart. None of that matters because he fits the one requirement I have for the night.

He’s sipping a dark liquor, which I suspect is brandy. There are not one but two young model types chatting with him. I turn away from the bar and step back toward the foyer, no longer concerned with making him wait. “What sort of danger are we talking. We’re filming it in two days. What’s going on?”

“There’s a cold front coming down from Canada, bringing with it tons of snow across the Midwest.” Cal drones on for another forty seconds with the weather report. “I’ve ordered the equipment convoy to hit the road early. I’m hoping that if they drive through the night they reach Lake Hope by midday tomorrow. The mention of Lake Hope brings a smile to my face. This beautiful undiscovered treasure was the setting for Forever, the lake and the lake lodge the key set piece for the movie. It holds a special place in my heart because I ran point as primary for many of the scenes at the lake. Sterling Kingston, the director, trusted me enough to handle a few of the emotionally complex scenes. An invaluable experience made even more so when the movie became a blockbuster and the critics heaped special praise on the scenes filmed at the lodge—a sore point which somehow strained my relationship with Sterling. Ten years in Hollywood, and I still haven’t figured out people and their motivations.  

ABC Studios reached out several months ago to arrange for a Christmas special with the original cast and crew shot on location at picturesque Lake Hope, one year later. Hence the equipment and my next stop. “It sounds like you have it handled. Why the call?”

I hear the frustrated sigh across the line, a show of emotion Cal rarely displays. “They are threatening to close airports across the region. Flights may be canceled or diverted. I need you to get to Indiana as soon as possible. I’ve secured tickets on a flight from LAX, but it leaves in less than ninety minutes.”

I’m out near Malibu. My bag’s packed, but it’s all the way across town, and then I must get through LA traffic to the airport and check in. It’ll be damn near impossible.

I remember that it’s my boss on the line. Cal doesn’t care about roadblocks; every day he handles tasks people say are impossible. I don’t even bother explaining to him the challenge he put in front of me. 

“Got it—on it,” I tell Cal and pivot toward the exit. “I’ll text you once I touch down in Indiana.”

“Do you want me to arrange a car and hotel for you in Indiana tonight? We already checked on the lodge, and tonight’s the last night of a family reunion, so they’re fully booked. They’ll be ready for you and the crew tomorrow, midday.”

I hadn’t even thought of what awaits me once I land. “I’ll take care of it.” Luckily, while filming I made several friends in Destiny Falls, the small town near Lake Hope. It’s short notice, but they are some of the nicest people around. I don’t expect accommodations will present a problem. “Let me get going, I’ll text you once I land.”

I click off and quickly call the front desk of my condo. Tony, the sweetheart at the front desk, quickly agrees to grab my luggage out of my unit and to send it with someone to meet me at the airport. 

I push out the glass doors and signal for the valet, tossing him my ticket. My gaze lingers on his smooth sprint to the car. Seeking a distraction, I flip open the app on my phone. The sexy green eyes mock me for a moment. I know he won’t miss me and has probably already forgotten I exist—about twelve hours ahead of my plans to do the same. The image of the two girls cozying up to him reminds me not to feel so bad. JetMan would have been walking the beach alone in a few short hours anyway. And tomorrow night he’ll probably be sitting at another bar, at another restaurant, waiting on yet another dinner date. I shoot off a quick note via the secured messenger tool in the app.

Me: Sorry, I have to bail. Work thing came up last minute.

Just to let him know I’m not an internet flake, I add:

Me: I was there and didn’t gaslight you. To prove it, out of the two girls you were chatting with at the bar, I suggest you go home with the one on your right. She was more into you. Enjoy.

I close out the app, not expecting a reply, at least not soon. I do what I do best: I prepare for my next work assignment. The thought of a five-star dinner is quickly replaced by a microwaved plastic-wrapped entrée served at thirty thousand feet.

Only the best for me. 

 

 

 

Chapter Two JASON

 

 

Sweat drips from my forehead into my eyes as I finish the last set of burpees as Lizzo streams from the wireless speakers hooked to the wall in my home gym. I love this room. It’s taken me two years, building it piece by piece, each apparatus sitting on my dream list for months, progress tracked on a spreadsheet. My inch-thick plan executed to perfection, vision, commitment, and hard work once again produced results.  

A buzz on my phone interrupts my song for a beat before Ed Sheeran reminds me, I don’t care. A second later the buzz returns, followed by another and another.

I rip my drenched T-shirt off, already knowing my workout is about to end. I grab the phone and notice the dozen text messages from my cousin Jackson.

Jackson lives with me, but he’s been out of town with his girlfriend, Dana, for the last few days. He’s not expected home until the day after tomorrow. I stop reading after the first two texts and call him.

“Finally. Where the hell have you been?” Jackson’s tone bites across the line. It’s far from his normal quiet personality. Hell, he’s been Zen-like since his arrival in Indiana two summers ago, his over-the-top, big-city, oppressive personality tamped down by the tranquil beauty of this small-town piece of America known as Destiny Falls. 

“Just sitting on the couch and munching on Doritos,” I snap back, knowing he’ll pick up on my tone. I’m a personal trainer, and we have a ban on all junk foods in the household. Jackson’s a professional chef and mostly uses healthy ingredients, however, we had to have a come-to-Jesus moment when he moved in and attempted to make desserts in my kitchen.

“Did you read the texts? Please tell me you’re on the way to the airport?”

“I thought you guys were driving. Are you flying back early? Is everything okay with my truck?” I flip open the text again and attempt to catch up on the long list.

“The truck’s fine, and so am I by the way, dumbass.”

His words flow off me like rain on a slanted window. Jackson knows how much I treasure my truck, another purchase I eyed for nearly three years until I saved enough, skipping cheaper choices and bypassing used versions, knowing in my heart I’d never be satisfied until I owned the truck perfect for me.

“It’s Amy,” Jackson says.

I attempt to make the connection. Amy is a close friend of Jackson and Dana. Most notably, she was assistant director on the movie Forever. Everyone in Destiny Falls knows who she is, along with everyone remotely connected with the movie who put our small town and region on the international map. Jackson mentioned they were filming a Christmas reunion show out at Lake Hope, and he’s scheduled to cater the wrap party, but I also remember it’s not set to start until later this week.

“She’s coming to town early, trying to beat the snowstorm. I’m too far away and can’t get to her in time. Please tell me you can pick her up. I sent all the flight information.”

I glance at the time and mentally calculate the timing to get to Indianapolis. It’ll be tight. “I’m at the house, but if you let me get off this phone, I’ll be able to make it. Set up a group text to let her know I’m meeting her, and I’ll jump in to let her know what I’m wearing and where to meet.” 

I hear the exhale of relief across the line when I come to his rescue, yet again. “I got this, cuz. I’ll treat her well. It’s what we do here in Indiana.” I shift the focus from the pickup to the drop-off. “Am I taking her straight to the Lake Hope lodge?”

“They’re wrapping up a massive family reunion today and don’t have any rooms available. Since I’m out of town, I figured you can take her back to the house for the night. Then if you don’t mind, will you drive her out to the lodge tomorrow? Please tell me you can do this.”

I nod and realize he can’t see me. I finished up my last client earlier today, and with the approaching holiday most of my clients have put their fitness plans on hold, even though this is the season they probably need it the most. “Yeah, I can do that. What if she insists on a hotel or something? She doesn’t know me, and it is a big ask for her to stay in a house with a strange man.”

“She may not know you, Jason, but she knows me. She knows Dana. And we know you. We know she’ll be in excellent hands.” A snicker escapes across the line. “On second thought, keep your hands to yourself.”

His words cut; he knows the challenge I experience in searching for a love like the one he shares with Dana. My recent history of dates is filled with disappointment: young women who have no clue what they are looking to do with their lives, barely knowing what they want to do the next day, let alone have a plan for the future; most of them completing college as if that were the finish line without a clue to what comes next.

“Amy’s not like the immature, brain-challenged bimbo cesspool you’ve been swimming in. She is probably the type of woman you need; thank god she is leaps and bounds beyond you. She’s a mature woman who won’t tolerate the nonsense of a twenty-three-year-old man-child.”

“I’m nearly twenty-four,” I retort, knowing it will irritate him. Jackson is my older cousin by five years. He, however, has taken on the role of a family elder, acting more like an older uncle than a peer. 

“She. Is. A. Guest,” he punctuates before adding, “Don’t tarnish our family name.”

“Nope, that’s your job,” I poke, knowing Jackson’s rough history, including him changing names at one point in time. I lift my arms and take a sniff, shaking my head at the smell. I’ve been working out for ninety minutes and have already taken two showers, but there is no way I’ll be able to sit in a car with the windows up and not cause Amy to pass out. “Listen, cuz, I got to run—you know our off-limits guest is waiting. I’ll have Amy buzz you and Dana once she’s safely back and covered in bubble wrap.”

I click off and race to the shower, questioning why Jackson is so concerned. How hard can it be for a small-town hick in the sticks to pick up a big-time Hollywood director and entertain her for a few hours?

 

***

 

Thankfully, the interstate is already salted, but the darkening clouds and the drop in the temperature tell me all I need to know. Her flight is barely going to beat the heavy snow. I’m hoping the approaching storms slow and provide enough of a window for us to drive home and hunker down. Jackson, being his overly protective self, stocked the house with enough meals to tide me over for a month before he left on his four-day trip with Dana.

I glance down at my phone again. Amy’s plane landed a few minutes ago, and I texted her a selfie so she can spot me at arrivals. I googled her while waiting just to refresh my memory. It’s been some time since they featured the crew in our local papers. The image on my phone confirms what I already knew. A casually dressed blonde beauty with hazel eyes. Every photo had her in jeans or cargo shorts and T-shirts, a comfort selection of a working woman. Her intense stare is a window into a mind that is already plotting what comes next. The image brings back memories of the hoopla around the crew when they were in town, the entire region starstruck. To their credit, the cast appeared approachable, friendly, and down-to-earth.

I kept my distance because the Hollywood image they project is a fantasy, one of the many pumped into the minds of the average person. They consume it hook, line, and sinker, the illusion more appealing than the daily grind of doing the proper things to achieve success.

I take a deep inhale before I climb onto my soapbox of unhealthy food choices, lack of exercise, and poor motivation that plagues not only my clients but most of America. Choices Hollywood assists in with their movies filled with perfectly sculpted bodies that are not reality based—a discussion for another day.  

The increased foot traffic pulls me back to the present, the arriving passengers beginning to stream through the exit, heading to baggage claim. It doesn’t take me long to spot the bouncing blonde mane, her confident strut making her stand out, her sunglasses pushed up high above her forehead. My gaze floats down to an incredible set of hazel eyes that sparkle even from this distance. Her stride is fast, purposeful. This is a lady in command. She walks through the crowd, and they instinctively part to allow greatness to march past them.

Our gazes lock and the dozen smart one-liners I practiced on the drive up evaporate in her presence. When the corners of her lips lift in unison, forming a dazzling smile—an image I know I will never forget—I lose control. I bow. As in full-on, the Queen of freaking England, back straight, perpendicular to the ground bow.

Her warm smile transforms in an instance into a hearty raucous laugh. Her roller bag falls from her hand and plops to the ground, the sound lost in her uncontrollable laugh. It’s not a polite laugh; it’s not an I’m in public laugh. It’s a this is freaking hilarious and this is me laugh. And it’s the greatest sound in the world.

“I love the manners of you men from the Midwest. I’m going to put you in my luggage and take you back to California. It’s a genuine pleasure to formally meet you, Jason.”

I extend my hand toward her, and she surprises me by pulling me into a hug.

“Dana once told me that out here in small-town America you guys hug those you care about.”

The scent of jasmine hits me, and when she adds a soft, “Mmmm,” I squeeze her tighter and make a mental note to thank Dana for that bit of advice. My hands land on her lower back, and as much as I try to push my professional habits away, they appear. I feel the tight muscles and am impressed. Her appearance is not an illusion—this is not a Hollywood eat-and-purge body, but one achieved by hard work and exercise. Her Google profile says she is thirty-two years old, but she has the body of a twenty-five-year-old. A very fit and active twenty-five-year-old. I make note to place my judgment back in the box where it should remain. I shouldn’t paint a broad Hollywood brush to everyone that arrives from the city of dreams. 

“The pleasure is all mine, Amy,” I whisper, my lips a mere inch from the shell of her ear.

My words cause a sparkle in her mesmerizing eyes. She paints on a warm smile and nods and bunches the end of her long blonde hair and lays it across of her shoulders.

I snap out of my momentary trance and step around her to pick up the lone luggage case. “I don’t mean to rush, but the snow is picking up. We should hit the road.”

She falls in step next to me and adjusts her shoulder bag. “Yeah, I spoke to Mia and Jackson, and they’re both trying to micromanage my schedule,” she begins with a hint of humor.

I nod, fully understanding her feelings. Jackson has those tendencies. Mia Marshall is our friend and the Realtor who connected the studio with Lake Hope. She also is the girlfriend of Amy’s ex-coworker Aaron Parker. The karma around the production experience had a six-degrees-of-separation vibe. 

We work ourselves around a family that is greeting a returning college student on winter break in time for the upcoming holiday. The parents hug him as if they hadn’t seen the son in a million days, and the younger sister is already bored. A Welcome Home Mylar balloon floats up from her backpack while she ignores everything in front of her, tapping away on her phone.

I navigate the luggage around the group and nod to the airport exit. It’s a short walk across the walkway to the parking garage. We step outside and the wind immediately whips up. That’s when I realize Amy is wearing only a thin pink sweater. “Please tell me you’ve brought winter wear with you. You’re not in LaLaLand anymore.”

Her hands wrap themselves around her body, and I can see her shoulders shiver as the winter wind cuts through her summer sweater. “I flew out in a hurry. My coats were sitting on my couch, but my doorman only grabbed the bag.”

I whip off my coat and wrap it around her shoulder. I take a moment to run my hand across her beautiful head of hair, helping her to lift it over the collar of the coat. “Let’s get you to the car to warm up. I have plenty of outerwear at the house.”

She nods in appreciation, slipping her arms through the sleeves, her small frame disappearing in my bulky coat. My arms are easily half a foot longer than hers. “Yeah, about that. Like I was saying, Mia and Jackson both told me I’m staying at the house. But I’m a grown woman. I’ve traveled the world. Been to places they can’t even imagine. Have slept outside on the floor of canyons, the open fields of Iceland, and too many airport floors to remember. Trust me, I can find my own accommodations. I’m used to finding things for a living.”

I can’t stop the laugh. It’s a line Jackson uses around the house when he imitates Aaron. Both Aaron and Amy share a career of once being location scouts for the studio. “I’m sure you can, Amy, but that’s not how we do things around here. We look out for those we care about.” I understand her thinking, but I also made a commitment to Jackson. “I’m sure Dana already explained it to you.”

We make our way into the garage, the harsh wind dying down as I navigate us toward the car. “I get that…” She bites on her bottom lip, and even though I barely know her, I can tell she is holding back a comment.

“Mia and Jackson aren’t here,” I start. “You can speak freely.”

She shoots a smirk in my direction which hints of something I know I must be misreading. It’s the look of sex, desire, and happiness. It’s a lethal combination but coming from a woman who has seen the world the way she has causes a spark to race through me that I usually associate with a post-workout high. “I’m not sure you’re old enough to hear it. You’re practically a child. How old are you?”

I press the key fob for the car in defense, hoping to distract her from the sour look I know must have crept onto my face. “Age ain’t nothing but a number,” I shoot back.

“Under eighteen is a number, but trust me, there is something to it.”

I know she is joking, as I stand a full head above her and haven’t been carded in years. I can’t believe I have to defend my age. Jackson constantly picks at this scab. But I’m the one who graduated college and bought a house before my twenty-second birthday. I’m the younger cousin he had to move in with when he blew up his life in Seattle. I’m an independent personal trainer with more than enough clients to support me. Everyone underestimates me. Why can’t they see me and not a number? “I’m the proper age for whatever you may have in mind.”

A flicker of something I am positive I can’t misread flashes across her bright eyes. It’s as if a switch flipped and she is looking at me with fresh eyes. “Really? You have no idea what’s on my mind.”

I step around her to the passenger door and open it, holding it as Amy climbs in. I use the opportunity to inhale her scent once again. This close, I notice the hint of faded freckles on the crown of her cheek. Her gaze lowers to my lips for a second. Her hazel eyes darken in desire, the look undeniable. I close the door and slip her bag into the trunk before plopping down into the driver’s seat. I start the car, turning up the heat and directing the vents in her direction. I’m sure the sudden change in temperature is a shock to her system. 

“It’s not that hard.” I twist the knob, adjusting the heat to seventy-eight degrees, a setting I’m assuming she’d be more comfortable with. Her gaze follows my hands as I secure my seat belt, drifting from my chest down to my lap. If she thinks she’s toying with a kid, I want to set her straight. I lower my gaze to my lap. “Or maybe it is.”

Once again, my impromptu response causes her to burst into an unadulterated laugh. It speaks of comfort and confidence, and I feel honored to hear it. She leans back, her finger wiping a happy tear from her eye.

We are no longer strangers meeting for the first time, but friends connecting through inappropriate humor.

I pull out the garage as her laugh echoes through the car. “Okay, so maybe it’s not that…” She pauses, forcing me to sneak a glance at her. Her gaze once again sits on my lap as she bites her lower lip. She continues. “… hard.” She snickers. Here I was worried I wouldn’t connect with a thirty-something LA woman, but she possesses the humor of a twelve-year-old boy.

“That is, hard to read my thoughts. Let me explain. I’ve been working nonstop for nine months straight. Today and tomorrow are the first days I’ve had off in forever, and let’s just say I have some other needs I was looking forward to taking care of.”

I nod and turn the car onto the interstate. Teardrops of sleet hit the windshield, and I set the controls to defrost.

“I know my options are limited out here in Indiana, but you can drop me at any of the hotels or motels along the highway. I have all I need in my bag.” Her insinuation is clear and not in the least subtle. I guess boldness is another trait LA women pack when traveling. This is a woman who has a plan and knows what she wants.

Jackson’s words ring in my ears. Hands off. Jackson must work with Amy on the wrap party. He’s hoping it’s an entree to being an approved caterer for the studio. If I do anything to mess that up, I’ll never hear the end.

“I hear you, Amy, and believe me, I get it,” I start.

She twists in her seat to face me. I squeeze the wheel and turn to sneak a peek. She is batting her eyes in my direction like a five-year-old attempting to get their way. “I hear a ‘but’ coming?”

I turn to face the road and flip on the wipers. “I’m responsible for you until I get you to Lake Hope tomorrow. I won’t drop you off at some strange hotel for you to spend a night alone when there are people who care about you right here in town.”

I don’t have to twist to hear her turn away. “If things go well, I wouldn’t be alone for long,” she mutters and twists to change the radio, a small victory in her attempt for control.

She puckers out her cheek like a spoiled kid, and I find it adorable. “Next stop, Destiny Falls. After Jackson gets here, you and he can discuss your options. Okay?” I shake my head.

I can’t believe this incredible woman is sitting in my truck and has essentially propositioned me. I attempt to concentrate on the slick roadway as we head to my house—my very empty house—to spend a night alone together. I knew when I made the promise to Jackson to keep my hands to myself, I’d come to regret it. I had no idea it would happen within ten minutes of meeting Amy. 

Amy stops on the oldies station, and Marvin Gaye is telling the world to let’s get it on.  

Amy shoots me a sweet, seductive look that tells me she isn’t about to give up.

I hate Marvin Gaye. However, I hate Jackson even more.