Dusk had fallen, and the salmon-colored sun dipped behind the western ridge. She checked her blind spot and merged onto Route 45. “The speedometer goes to ninety-five, but I think the car would explode above sixty.”

Whipping off his hat, he leaned in front of her and peered at the instrument panel. “How fast have you driven it?”

She inhaled deeply, relishing the scents of spicy cedar and clean sweat. “I don’t like to speed. Plus, the whole car shudders around fifty-five. I’m not kidding about it exploding.”

He sat back in his seat, bracing both hands on the dashboard, long, strong fingers splayed wide. “Go fifty-five now.”

Tessa Meadows was a rule-follower to her core. Her prime directive for twenty-eight years was to avoid getting yelled at by strangers. She glanced sidelong. He faced her now, right hand on the dash, left hand just below her headrest. She could almost feel the heat from his palm on the back of her neck. “But the speed limit is only forty-five.”

He lifted his chin, and his eyes darkened. “Go fifty-five.”

She gripped the wheel. “Break the speed limit?”

“Uh huh.”

One side of his mouth rose in that delicious, half smile, sending crinkles shooting from his eyes. Her stomach pulled in the tingly flutter of ten thousand, electric hummingbird wings. For this man, anything. With a jolt, she crushed the accelerator, and the needle inched toward fifty-five.

Jonas climbed halfway out the window and let out a whoop. “This is my hometown,” he shouted.

His hair tossed wildly, and his shirt billowed like a sail.

Grazing cows lifted their heads and watched them hurtle by.

She let out a peal of laughter and leaned into the gas pedal. Next stop, the interstate! She’d drive to Ohio to keep him shouting for joy. The needle kissed sixty. Just how fast could the van go?

A sudden siren pierced the air.

Too late, she slammed on the brakes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Flashing red lights lit the car from behind.

He slid back inside, darting a look out the rear. “What’s happening?”

Blood pounding in her ears, she pulled into the parking lot of a shuttered dairy bar. “The police. I’m going to get a ticket.” Her throat went thick. For a sickening moment, she feared she might weep. She yanked open the glove compartment and groped inside, scraping her knuckles over the sharp hinge. Napkins and straws littered Jonas’s feet. “Where’s the darn registration card?”

“It’s all right. Let me help.”

His voice soothed the panic bouncing around her lungs like an electrified pinball. She withdrew her hand and blew on her knuckles.

“Is this what you need?” He extended the zippered pouch containing the necessary documents.

With a weak nod, she took them and glanced in the rearview mirror.