This was not how she would’ve written this particular chapter in her life.

Donna pressed one hand to her cheek to stem the frustrated tears. Too late, she remembered the axle grease. Her hand came away both wet and grease-smeared. She’d probably managed to paint her face like a high school football player.

She wanted to kick the stupid tire, but with her luck, she’d probably knock the little coupe off the jack she’d just spent a half hour fighting with.

Maybe even pin herself underneath, and then where would she be?

There was nothing for it but to start walking.

She’d outgrown her fear of the dark when she was ten. Or so she’d thought until the country night noises started. Were those far-off yips coyotes? And what about that much closer rustle?

This was all Will Jacobs’s fault.

Since he was a fictional character, maybe that meant it was her fault. No one in town understood how she could create stories the way she did. They’d been teasing her since she was in eighth grade.

She should’ve left Kickingbird long before now.

But she’d never wanted to leave Gram. Gram had raised her after Donna’s parents had passed when she was little. Gram had given her Band-Aids for her childhood booboos. Gram had comforted her with a soft hand in her hair when she’d been stood up for the freshman Sadie Hawkins dance.

Now it was her turn as Gram’s sharp mind faded into Alzheimer’s. How could Donna do any less for the woman who’d sacrificed so much for her?

Writing was her solace. Her only escape when she wished she was anywhere else.

Which was why she was in this whole mess.

She’d been so caught up in writing a romantic scene between her fictional hero, Will Jacobs, and his leading lady that she’d missed her chance to go shopping at the tiny local grocery store before it closed for the day. She’d had to drive forty-five minutes to the next town over to shop at the twenty-four-hour discount store, and now it was nearing midnight.

The late hour didn’t bother her.

It was just that no one was driving the rural dirt roads at this hour, and she was nearly three miles from home.

Her flip-flops weren’t made for walking. And the day’s warmth was fading to a crisp autumn snap.

At least Gram was taken care of. Their closest neighbor Molly was a kindhearted woman about the age Donna’s mother would have been if she’d lived.

She stayed with Gram on the few occasions Donna had to leave her. Like tonight.

The grocery store run that never ended.

If Donna were writing this chapter of her life, she’d make a handsome hero—just like Will Jacobs—drive along and rescue her. Right about… now.

She couldn’t help looking over her shoulder. Too often, she lived in her fictional world. Things were easier there. Happier.

It wasn’t real.

But when she looked, it was as if she’d conjured her rescue. Headlights appeared. Small pinpricks in the darkness at first. Then the crunch of tires on the gravel, the hum of an engine.

She gripped the handle of her purse, her only weapon out here. Just in case.

But it was a brown SUV, one she recognized easily, with SHERIFF emblazoned on the side in white reflective paint.

Please let it be Kurt.

But her wish wasn’t granted as the passenger window rolled down to reveal the sheriff’s deputy, Jacob Williamson.

“Saw your car off the side of the road. You need a lift?”

She wanted to refuse. As she remembered every single high school humiliation, her chin came up. The word No was on the tip of her tongue.

And then she remembered Gram was at home, waiting on her. Maybe sleeping, but there was the possibility she was awake and worried. And Molly was no doubt wondering what had happened to her.

And it wasn’t as if there was a hotbed of traffic at this time of night.

All the starch went out of her. “Okay.”

But she couldn’t quite force the word thanks from her lips. Not to him.

He pushed open the passenger door from the inside, and she climbed in. The warmth inside the cab was heavenly on her bare toes. She hadn’t thought it was that cold outside.

She refused to be embarrassed about her lucky writing shirt, an oversized sweatshirt that had been her father’s oh… twenty-something years ago. Or her skinny jeans that were now mud-splattered.

She didn’t care what Jacob thought about her. Not one bit.

“What are you doing out at this time of night?” he asked.

She wanted to snap back at him that it wasn’t any of his business, but he was in uniform. Maybe it was an official question.

“Grocery store run. Gram and I were out of milk.”

He glanced at her and back at the road. He was barely crawling along as it was. “Where’s your milk, then?”

She shrugged. He had to know it was back in her car, but she wasn’t going to ask him for help.

He hit the brakes anyway, then made a three-point turn right there in the road.

It only took a minute to drive back to her poor little car. Guess she wasn’t a very fast walker.

He threw the truck in park and turned to her, his arm going across the back of the bench seat so that his fingers almost brushed her shoulder.

She felt a hot blush rising in her neck and tried to think of anything but him.

“You want me to change out your tire? Or just fetch those groceries of yours?” His smile was cocky and sure.

The same smile he’d worn back then. Like the night of junior prom, when she’d gone stag. He’d teased her about not being able to get a date. He’d been captain of the football team. It was predictable, but there’d been a cheerleader on his arm.

So what if it’d been fifteen years ago? She could still hear the taunt in his voice.

She didn’t want anything from him. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him so, but she squeezed her eyes closed and turned her face to the side.

Gram. Think about Gram.

“I’ll just take the groceries with me.” Her voice was so tight, she didn’t sound like herself at all.

He didn’t move for long seconds, and she waited for him to taunt her again. Something like say please.

But then he sighed softly, and there was a rush of air as he got out of the SUV and closed the door behind him.

He was blessedly silent as he grabbed the four totes full of her groceries and loaded them in the back of his vehicle.

But it didn’t last.

He’d driven maybe a quarter mile when he said, “I read one of your books.”

Until this point, she’d been mildly uncomfortable. Embarrassed by the circumstances of a flat tire and still angry about the past.

But now she gave serious thought to throwing herself out of the car. He was only going thirty. She might survive.

Gram needed her. That was the only thing that kept her in the car.

“I’m pretty sure my wife read all of your stuff. Reading romances distracted her. Kept her mind off things there at the end. You know?”

She couldn’t help but look at him now. She’d expected to be mocked for her novels. Not this.

He kept his eyes on the road. In the thin blue light coming off the dash, she could see lines bracketing his eyes and mouth.

She knew his wife had died… had it already been three years?

He cleared his throat. “A few months ago, I decided to read one of them. To… I don’t know. It sounds silly when I say it out loud. To be close to her. I was starting to forget the sound of her voice.”

Why was he telling her this?

He seemed to shake himself as if maybe he’d had the same thought. “Anyway, it was the one with the guy named Will Jacobs.”

Her face flared with heat like a firework that’d just burst in the night sky.

He turned the SUV into Gram’s drive.

She willed him not to say anything else.

But he wasn’t a character in one of her books. She couldn’t control what came out of his mouth.

“Amber, my wife, she’d written this note in the margins on one page.” He laughed a little. Almost sheepishly. “She wrote, this Will Jacobs guy talks just like my Jacob.”

Donna stared ahead through the windshield. Forty feet. Thirty. He’d be coming to a stop soon. Five seconds.

Breathe.

In the faint reflection cast by the dash lights on the windshield, she saw him look at her.

And then he stopped, and she threw herself out of the SUV.

She didn’t care about the groceries anymore. She didn’t care about anything except escaping him. Escaping whatever practical joke this was. Always at her expense.

She was flying up the two concrete steps when he called out after her. “Donna, wait.”

She fumbled for her keys, almost dropped them, jammed them into the deadbolt.

“Leave me alone.” She hated the way her voice shook. Now he’d know that he could still get to her.

She used her shoulder to wipe away the useless tears as she burst through the front door.

The motion and noise woke Molly from where she’d been curled up on the couch beneath an afghan. The TV was on.

Donna probably looked like she was the one with Alzheimer’s as she slammed the door closed and threw the lock.

She ignored Molly’s wide-eyed stare as she leaned against the door, pressing her forehead and both hands against it. As if she could keep out the bitter memories and anxiety about whatever fun he was trying to poke at her now.

She heard movement on the other side of the door. Several thuds.

And the insulation around the door was so thin that she heard another of those soft sighs.

“Donna? I’ll take a look at your tire on my way back to town. Maybe I can change the spare, save you from having to get a tow truck all the way out here.”

And then he was gone.

She reassured Molly, checked on a sleeping Gram, and put away the groceries. With nothing else to do, she climbed into bed. But she didn’t sleep a wink.

At least Jacob didn’t know everything. He didn’t know that every single one of her heroes was named Will Jacobs. At least in her first drafts. During edits, they’d be christened with a new name.

In the morning her eyes were scratchy and red-rimmed from lack of sleep. She made sure Gram was situated and Molly was on call. When she opened the front door, her car was waiting in the drive.

The donut was on it and when she checked, she saw the jack and tire wrench had been put carefully back in place in the trunk.

And there was a note on the driver’s seat.

Jacob’s handwriting was neat and bold.

Donna,

I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night. That’s what I should’ve said—I’m sorry—instead of asking about your books. I’m sorry for all of it. All those dumb stunts in high school and for hurting your feelings. I’d like to think I’m a better man now. Loving Amber and then losing her has made me rethink a lot of things. I’d like to be your friend. I’d like more than that, but it’s a place to start. We should grab a cup of coffee sometime. Catch up. Please give me a chance?

He’d signed it with a bold scrawl and his phone number.