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Stopping, he waited and hoped the engine would fire to life and he’d be free to go on his merry way. But nope, no such luck. The sputtering continued in growls and grunts, the gap in between each cough growing systematically longer by several seconds. In a matter of minutes, Dylan guessed, the car would become completely unresponsive.
Ah, hell. This he did not need.
But because his folks had raised him to lend a hand when one was needed, he switched his direction. Maybe the car just required a jump, which he could do without too much effort. If not, he’d lead the stranded person inside and wait with them until a tow truck arrived.
He approached the car—a decade-plus-old Chevy Malibu, he now saw—and grimaced at the now grinding, winding-down sound of an engine giving up the ghost. The driver needed to stop his attempts, because no amount of key turning and gas-pedal pumping was going to do the trick. And while he hated to admit it, he had serious doubts that the issue was the relatively simple matter of a battery requiring a jump.
This night seriously did not want to end.
Hungry, tired and...okay, irritated, Dylan paused mere inches from the car as recognition hit. His heart dropped clear to his stomach, because naturally, the person sitting behind the wheel frantically twisting the key in the ignition was none other than the too-skinny tall brunette who had consumed his thoughts for the majority of the evening. Chelsea.
And behind her, stretched out on the backseat, curled up in a blanket—and from his vantage point, apparently asleep—was her son, Henry. Dylan swore under his breath, knowing instinctively that she hadn’t found a hotel and that her convoluted plan was to spend the night in this behemoth of a car that now refused to start.
No heat. No safety. No nothing. Just an unprotected woman with her young child, sleeping in their car in a strange city on a cold, windy night with nowhere else to go. And his irritation climbed to a whole new level.
Striding forward, he raised his fist and knocked on the driver-side window. She froze before looking at him through the glass, her expression stricken at his sudden presence. Which meant, despite the glow from the parking-lot lights, she hadn’t seen or even sensed his approach. Pushing out a breath, reining in his annoyance, he gestured for her to roll down her window.
After a moment’s hesitation, she did.
“That car is dead in the water,” he said before she could utter a solitary syllable. “And even if it wasn’t, you can’t sleep there. It isn’t safe.”
“Who said I was sleeping here?” she responded, her tone strong and defensive. Well, he couldn’t blame her for either. As far as she knew, he was a bad guy. “And I always have trouble with the car when it’s cold outside, but I’m sure it will start. So we’re fine.”
She thought she was fine? Dylan bit back the curse he almost muttered and shook his head in resignation. He downgraded his hopeful nine hours of sleep to an adequate seven and jammed his hands into his coat pockets to fend off frozen fingers.
In a measured, calm meter, he said, “The last thing you are is fine.”
“The car will start.” Her chin firmed in stubbornness. “It’s just...temperamental in cold climates.”
“Uh-huh.” Weighing his next move, he thought of and discarded several reasonable arguments. He did not want to cause her undue alarm, but he also wasn’t about to walk off and leave her and her kid alone. “If you think you can get that car to run, I’ll wait right here while you do,” he said. “Then, since you said you’re not sleeping here, I assume that means you have somewhere else to go, so I’ll drive behind you to ascertain your car doesn’t become...temperamental again and leave you stranded.”
“You can go. I’m good,” she said hurriedly. “None of that is necessary.”
“In my book, all of it is necessary. Or,” he said, hoping he was wrong about the sleeping-in-the-car business, “I can call you a cab. You’ll be on your way in no time. Your choice.”
“No. I... The car will start.”
“I don’t think it will.”
She didn’t respond, just turned the key again...and then again...to no avail. “Come on,” she murmured before trying a third time. This attempt yielded a sharp, whining gasp.
“Don’t try again,” he warned. “Just—”
Chelsea swore and twisted the key once more. Nothing. Not a cough or a whine or a hack. Her shoulders trembled and she inhaled a deep breath. Several seconds elapsed before she looked at him, and when she did, her eyes were shiny with the promise of tears. Oh, hell.
“I didn’t find a hotel I can afford,” she admitted in a quiet, defeated voice that matched every inch of her body language. “And maybe the car won’t start until it warms up some tomorrow, but we’ll be fine. I have a ton of blankets and...and...”
“Get your son and get out of the car,” Dylan said before the promise of tears became a reality. That, he knew, would be his complete undoing. “I’ll carry whatever else you need. But you’re sure as hell not sleeping out here tonight.”
Doubt and fear clouded her gaze, her voice. “That isn’t a good idea.”
“Do you have a better one?” No response. Dylan counted to three, and then to five. He understood, even admired, her reluctance. But something had to give to change the status quo. “Look,” he said, “I get it. This is an awkward situation and you don’t know me from Adam, but you’ll have to trust that my only goal here is to get some shut-eye. That won’t happen if I leave you and your son on a friggin’ cold night that will only get colder. Let me help. Please.”
“I appreciate your kindness, but...” She squinted her eyes in assessment. Of him and, probably, the veracity of his words. She gave a quick, decisive shake to her head. “It’s a generous offer, but I have to decline. It’s better, I think, if we stay here and wait for morning.”
“That’s—” He clamped his jaw shut before uttering the word idiotic. She was, after all, only trying to remain safe. She wasn’t going to budge and he wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave her and her kid out here alone, vulnerable to the weather and other unpredictable, possibly dangerous, factors. “All righty, then. You win,” he said, settling on the one remaining, uncomfortable-as-all-get-out alternative and pointing toward his parked car on the other side of the lot. “If you won’t come with me, then I guess I’m bunking in my car, as well. I’ll just bring it over here.”
“You can’t do that,” Chelsea said. “That’s...extreme and—”
“It’s the only thing I can do,” he said, his irritation climbing even higher. “You get to decide what you’re doing, and I get to decide what I’m doing. No use arguing.”
She stared at him and he stared right back, neither speaking. Finally, she nodded and started to roll up her window. He’d taken three full steps when she said, “Wait. Just...wait.”
Dylan paused, pivoted and leveraged his hands on his hips. “Waiting.”
“Can you promise... You’re not an ax murderer or something, are you?”
“No,” he said, choosing not to point out the obvious—most ax murderers didn’t go around warning their would-be victims of their intent. “I find axes rather—” he smiled, more in an effort to put her at ease than from any sense of amusement “—unwieldy as a rule.”
Her eyes widened in shock and she made a half squeal sort of a noise. No more than a second later, she blinked and her lips twitched in an almost grin. Good sign, that. “I see,” she said. “So I don’t have to worry that you’re an ax murderer?”
“Nope,” he said, straight-faced. “I’d rather put my victims in a car with no running heat on a cold, blustery night and wait for them to freeze to death. Far less bloody that way.”
“Less bloody, sure, but not exactly the most expedient plan.” She laughed, but it sounded forced to Dylan’s ears. Nervous, too. “I believe you’re not an ax murderer, but if I were to accept your offer of help...” Sighing, she glanced over her shoulder at her sleeping son. “Are you expecting anything in return? That is, anything from me in return?”
Oh, Lord. He should’ve seen that question coming. Every ounce of irritation fled. He no longer speculated on why Chelsea hadn’t planned ahead well enough to have a place to sleep or what had happened to cause her job to fall through. All he saw was a desperate woman who was petrified she’d have to pay too high a price to keep her son warm.
It was, Dylan realized, far too easy to imagine Haley in such a position, even though she didn’t yet have any children. And it was far too terrifying to consider if a different sort of man had offered his assistance. “All I’m expecting,” he said, meeting Chelsea’s gaze with his own and hoping she’d see his sincerity, “is to feel relief I didn’t leave you and Henry out here on your own. That’s it. That’s all there is to this. I swear.”
He could damn near see the debate raging inside her head, but in the end, she closed her eyes and released another sigh. “Whatever it takes,” she muttered to herself. Then, with eyes wide-open and focused on him, she nodded. “I’ll take you up on your offer, and I’m grateful and appreciative, but—” now she narrowed those gorgeous eyes of hers and the tempo of her speech hardened “—I will warn you that if you try anything at all, I do not find axes too unwieldy. I am, in fact, comfortable with a wide array of weapons. Quite comfortable.”
Meaning she’d kick his butt from here to Denver if he crossed a line. Well, no worries there. He wasn’t that type of man. Never had been, never would be.
But he couldn’t continue to deny his attraction toward her, either. He’d recognized her vulnerability early on, so it wasn’t that alone. Nor was it solely the tough attitude she’d just displayed. Nope, it was the mix of the two that yanked at his heart.
Nah. More appropriate to call that specific recipe in a woman his Achilles’ heel. A combination of traits in the opposite sex that tended to shove his common sense out the window in lieu of more basic, emotional responses. The need to protect, defend, take care of.
Once, so long ago now that it was almost difficult to remember his younger self, he’d married a woman with that same deadly blend of helplessness coated by an edge of steel. For a while, he’d been mesmerized by Elise’s wants and needs and his own desire to protect. He’d fallen for every sob, every shaky breath, every whispered devotion without ever second-guessing her intent. She’d been good. So damn good he hadn’t seen her betrayal coming.
But she’d set her sights on a different type of life than the one she was born into, so she’d used him as a...well, a stepping stone. When something better came along, she’d trounced his heart into smithereens and run off with another man. Pregnant, to boot. Not with his child, as he’d made damn sure of that before signing the divorce decree. But yeah, for Elise, he’d been nothing more than a stopgap. It still hurt, realizing that was all he’d meant to her.
He’d loved and trusted Elise. Her deceptions had left him scarred and vigilant. Smarter, though, too. Truth was, he couldn’t blame Elise for his own stupidity. There had been signs, he was sure, of her manipulations. If he’d paid more attention, he would’ve recognized those signs, and in doing so, saved himself from a world of pain and humiliation.
So, no. Dylan would never again allow himself to be taken for a ride by a tough-as-nails damsel in distress. No matter how attractive or appealing that woman might be.
He gave himself a mental shake and focused on Chelsea, who was still watching him with cautious eyes and a firm, unyielding mouth. Vulnerable and tough and...scared.
Yep, his Achilles’ heel.
“Got it,” he said, his tone abrupt and cool. “You’re an ace with weaponry of all kinds. Now, if you’re done with the warnings, let’s get the two of you inside where it’s warm. We’ll get your car towed tomorrow and see about getting it fixed.”
He thought for a second she was going to present a whole new slew of arguments. But then she unlocked her door and stepped out. While Chelsea gathered her son, he grabbed the overnight bags she pointed to, along with a patched-up stuffed bear that had seen better days.
And when Henry opened his eyes and asked his mother if they’d found their new fresh start, Dylan’s heart about broke in two. But that feeling would lead him straight into disaster, so he shored up his defenses and promised to keep both mother and son at a distance.
A modest enough promise to stick to for one night.
Helping Chelsea and her son was the right thing to do. No more, no less. Tomorrow, he expected she’d be on her way back to wherever she’d come from. This pull he felt toward her wouldn’t have the opportunity to grow or become problematic.
It would simply disappear.
Chapter Three (#ulink_20172b3c-d1be-5d3f-8331-40e2a6acc8c2)
Panic and nausea roiled in Chelsea’s stomach as she followed Dylan through the parking lot toward the back of the restaurant. She clutched Henry’s hand tighter—he’d woken the second she’d attempted to lift him into her arms and had insisted on walking—and wished she weren’t so afraid. What type of woman trusted a man’s word when she didn’t even know the man?
Well, she supposed, the type of woman who had run out of options. A sad, pitiful, terrifying description that now fit her perfectly.
She’d called each of the hotels Dylan had circled, plus a couple more for good measure. They were all cheap, but not cheap enough, and even then, none of them had any vacancies until tomorrow night. When the fight broke out, she’d decided it was best to leave, so she’d returned to the table and told Henry they were going to try something different that night by camping in their car. And yes, she’d made the prospect sound fun and adventurous.
Her darling, sweet boy didn’t put up a fuss or ask too many questions. Rather, he nodded and smiled and asked—again—if he could have a root beer before they left. Of course, she’d expected he’d react well. That was her kid. He just sort of went with the flow—though the way life had treated them since his birth almost demanded such a disposition. Nothing had gone easy.
Disowned by her parents, which honestly had been more of a blessing than a curse, abandoned by Henry’s father and left to her own devices to figure out all the messy details. Where to live. Where to work. Whom to trust. How to be the mother that Henry deserved.
And every damn time she thought she’d made a little progress, something would go wrong. Her apartment building had caught on fire. The best job she’d ever had, which wasn’t saying much, had been eliminated. Her purse was stolen. Her car broke down.
One thing after another. She’d barely recovered from one disaster when a new one would occur. It was as if fate had decided that nothing—meaning not one thing—would ever go as planned. So, she supposed, not only had Henry learned to go with the flow, but she had, as well.
But this? Accepting help from a strange man and trusting he wasn’t going to turn into a monster the second he had them alone was a new, frightening obstacle. Her gut told her he was safe and trustworthy, but her brain insisted she had just made a gigantic mistake.
So as they trudged along, she considered what she had in her purse that could be, if needed, used as a weapon. Her keys, maybe. If she could get them spread through her fingers just right fast enough. There was the minibottle of hair spray. Might work well enough if she could get the spray to hit his eyes, to blind him momentarily. Give her a few seconds to...what? Run?
She tried to imagine running with Henry at her side or in her arms and knew they wouldn’t get very far. Her keys, then. She’d use the hair spray to gain enough minutes to get to her keys, which she’d then use to protect herself and her son. After that, she didn’t know, but stupid or not, she felt considerably better having any sort of a plan.
“My parents used to keep an apartment upstairs,” Dylan was saying as they approached the back door of the restaurant. “All of us kids lived there at one time or another. Now it’s more of a space for family meetings, but there are sofas and blankets, and it’s warm.”
“Sounds considerably better than the car,” she said, her thoughts still focused on defense. And whether she fell into the cautious-but-smart category or the too-stupid-to-live one. She hoped the former. The too-stupid-to-live women always ended up dead in the movies. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
They stepped inside, and Chelsea dropped Henry’s hand to fish through her purse. The second she found the hair-spray bottle, she pulled her son close to her side and, at the same time, put a little more breathing distance between them and Dylan. Just in case.
“Back so soon? I told you that Gavin is on his way, big brother, so there’s no reason to... Oh!” The waitress who’d served them earlier rounded the corner, stopping short when she saw Chelsea and Henry. “I see we have company,” she said. “Let me guess...car problems?”
“Hey, Haley. And yup, you guessed right,” Dylan said. “This is Chelsea and Henry, and their car doesn’t seem to like the cold weather all that much. They...ah...didn’t have anywhere to stay, so I figured they could sleep upstairs. Just for tonight.”
Relief filtered in, wiping out most of Chelsea’s nerves. Someone else was here, and that made all of this seem much more normal. She loosened her hold on Henry.
“Okay,” Haley said, as if such an occurrence happened on a regular basis. And hey, as far as Chelsea knew, strangers often slept upstairs. Then the woman knelt in front of Henry. “Hello there,” she said. “Remember me? I brought you your hamburger and fries for dinner.”
“’Course I remember. You forgot the dip,” Henry said. “But you got it after I told you.”
Haley laughed. “That’s right.” A series of raps on the door had her straightening into a stand. “That would be Gavin,” she said to Dylan. “Are you all set, or...?”
“We’re good. Go home and get some sleep.”
“I think I will.” Haley waved at Chelsea and Henry before giving Dylan a quick hug. “See you all tomorrow,” she said, unlocking and opening the door. “Sleep tight and don’t—”
“Let the bedbugs bite!” Henry said, finishing Haley’s sentence. “Mommy says that all the time, except she tells me to let the love bugs bite.” He scowled. “I don’t want any bug bites!”
“Aw, that’s cute,” Haley said with another laugh. “Well, then, just sleep tight.”
Dylan locked the door behind his sister and Chelsea’s former apprehension returned. Not as strong, but still potent. Sensible, she knew, even with the normalcy of the exchange between Dylan and Haley. Better to be on guard and prepared than oblivious and taken by surprise.
“Anyone need anything before we head upstairs?” Dylan asked.
“It’s too late for soda,” Chelsea said to Henry, anticipating his response. “If you’re thirsty, you can have water.”
“Can I have a root beer tomorrow with lunch?” Henry asked. “You won’t let me have soda for breakfast, so I won’t ask for that.”
“Yes, Henry,” she said, too tired and nervous to worry about tomorrow.
“He really likes root beer, I take it?” Dylan didn’t wait for a reply, just gestured toward a door on the other side of the kitchen. “Let’s go on up and get you settled.”
“I like this new fresh start, Mommy,” Henry said, following Dylan without a second’s hesitation. “The other house was nice, but this one is better. It has the biggest kitchen I’ve ever seen and they have burgers and fries and real live fights! Pow, pow!”
“We left right after that fight started,” Chelsea explained as they climbed a narrow flight of stairs, pretending with everything she had that she was as comfortable as Dylan seemed. “And he was a little bummed to miss the excitement.”
“You know, Henry,” Dylan said, opening the door at the top of the stairs. He reached in and flipped on the lights. “Fights might seem exciting, but they’re dangerous and not the best way to settle a disagreement. Typically, anyway. So you didn’t miss much.”
“To him, it was noisy and fun.” Wrong, probably, but Chelsea felt the need to defend Henry’s enthusiasm. “He’s just a child and hasn’t yet connected fights with violence, because he has had zero exposure to violence. Which is how it should be.”
“Yup, that is exactly how it should be. I wasn’t condemning his view, just pointing out a different one. That’s all.” Herding them into the brightly lit room, Dylan said, “When I was a kid, me and my brothers were almost always in some sort of a skirmish. It’s natural.”
“Right. I just... I thought you were... Never mind.”
“You thought I was remarking on your parenting skills or something along those lines?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” To change the subject, she asked, “You said your brothers, as in plural? How many? Older or younger?”
“Two. One older, one younger.”
She waited for additional details, but he didn’t offer any. Disappointed, though she couldn’t put into words why, she said, “I have one sister. Younger.”
“That’s good. Family is important.”
“Depends on the family,” she said, thinking of her upbringing. Her father’s near-constant state of displeasure, with just about everything, really, but most often focused on Chelsea. Her mother’s passive disregard or worse, when she chimed in with her own cruel words in an effort to appease her husband rather than standing up for her kids. And Chelsea’s inability to succeed in their eyes, despite her many attempts. “Some families aren’t very family-like.”
Dylan gave her a question-filled look but didn’t comment. That was fine. She didn’t talk about her family with anyone. Not the details, at any rate. Her response had been made out of nervousness and a need to keep the silence at bay.
“We’re sleeping here?” Henry spun in a circle, taking in the space. “There aren’t any beds! Mommy, we could build a fort under the table. Like an inside tent!”
