Besides, thirty seconds after Zoey drives off, a county patrol car pulls up, and I’ve got other shit to worry about as a deputy gets out, leaning on the hood. “Well now . . . guess I should call for a couple o’ wreckers now, shouldn’t I?”

No shit, Sherlock.

Chapter 3

Blake

I watch the first wrecker’s tail lights disappear easily, the traffic having cleared. It’s not surprising. That’s what traffic does—backs up because of a slow-moving tractor or an accident, and then it disappears when there’s enough time and space for everyone to move.

Sucks that it cleared just in time to let Zoey drive away from me, though.

With a sigh, I get into the Uber I had to call and slowly pull out of the gas station too, unfortunately going the opposite direction as Zoey.

A few minutes later, we pull up to the address my sister, Amy, gave me. It’s nothing more than a corn field among other corn fields. I’d think she was setting me up for one of her pranks, except her car is sitting on the side of the road.

“You sure, dude?” my driver asks, looking around with concern.

“Yeah,” I tell him, tapping his tablet to confirm the charges. “Thanks.”

I get out and see my sister. For argument's sake, she drives a very sensible white Volvo. Not a pink Barbie car in sight.

But she’s already scowling. “You’re late, Frosted Blakes. And what’s with the fuckin’ Uber?”

Ugh, the nickname she gave me when we were kids.

It drives me crazy and there’s not a single other person I allow to call me that without dire consequences. Until Amy met and married Fernanda. Since Amy always calls me Frosted Blakes, Fernanda took up the habit, and I respect—and fear—her enough that I let it slide with her too.

“Yeah, had a bit of a holdup on the way here,” I reply evenly.

That stops her from putzing with the camera she’s tweaking even though there’s a cameraman standing right there who is eyeing Amy like she’s messing with his baby.

“What happened?”

She knows I have contingency plans for my emergency plans and always leave early in case I’m delayed. But even I couldn’t have foreseen Zoey Walker.

“Bit more than a fender bender,” I say carefully, knowing that it’s like ever-so-politely pulling the pin on a grenade. “Had to call a wrecker.”

“What?” she yells, smacking the cameraman for no good reason. He recoils, and I understand. My sister throws chops like a pro wrestler. “Are you okay?”

She comes over and starts turning my face left and then right as she checks me over.

“Still good looking?” I ask with a smile.