Holtz slowed, wondering if he should call it in, but then he saw the girl. She’d had her head bent over the engine, but as he drew up beside her car, she straightened, scrubbing at her forehead.

Blond hair. Red lips. Tight-fitting jeans.

Holtz rolled down the window. “This is private property,” he said.

“I’m afraid you can’t stop here.”

“I didn’t want to,” she said, “the stupid thing just up and died.”

Holtz caught the edge of an accent, a melodic lilt. God, he loved accents.

“And of course,” the girl went on, kicking a tire, “I don’t know shite about cars.”

Holtz eyed the low black beast. “That’s quite a car for someone who doesn’t know shite.”

She smiled at that, a dazzling, dimpled smile. “What can I say?” she said in that musical voice. “I have a weakness for nice things.” She pulled her hair up off her neck. “Think you can help?”

Holtz didn’t know shite— shit—about cars either, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He got out and rolled up his sleeves, approaching the engine. It reminded him of the fake bombs he’d had to defuse in basic training.

He toggled and poked and made low humming sounds as the girl stood at his shoulder, smelling of summer and sunshine. And then, miraculously, his fingers brushed over a hose and Holtz realized it had simply come free. He reconnected it.

“Try starting it now,” he said, and a second later, the coupe’s engine rumbled to life. The girl let out a joyful sound.

Holtz shut the hood, feeling triumphant.

“My hero,” she said with mock sincerity but genuine affection. She dug through her wallet. “Here, let me pay you . . .”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“You bailed me out,” she said. “There has to be something I can do.”

Holtz hesitated. She was out of his league, but—fuck it.

“You could let me buy you a drink.”

He braced himself for the inevitable rejection, wasn’t surprised when the girl shook her head. “No,” she said, “that won’t do. But I’ll buy you one.”

Holtz grinned like an idiot.

He would have gone with her right then, left the black coupe on the side of the private road and driven her anywhere she wanted, but she apologized—she was running crazy late, thanks to the breakdown—and asked if he would take a rain check.

Tomorrow night?

He agreed.

She held out her hand, palm up. “Got a phone?”

He offered up his cell, flushing slightly when her fingers lingered on his, their touch feather light, but electric. She added her name and number to his contacts and passed it back.

“Tomorrow, then?” she asked, turning toward her car.

“Tomorrow, then . . .” Holtz looked down at the entry in his phone.

“April.”