The Boy I Hate(45)

But there was something different about the way they were moving, like something was wrong, and a sinking feeling settled in the bottom of her gut. “We ran out of gas, didn’t we?”

The car rolled to a full stop, and Tristan, who still hadn’t said a word, put it in park. “I filled up less than three hours ago.”

Samantha shoved her iPod back in her purse and swallowed. A cold draft rushed over her face and neck as Tristan got out of the car. She quickly followed after him, wrapped in her red wool blanket. “I can’t believe this! I told you this would happen. I knew we could run out of gas.”

He lifted the hood and propped it open. “For the last time, we didn’t run out of gas!” He pulled his cell from his pocket and flipped on the flashlight. “Something’s wrong. It’s just too dark to see what.”

He turned around to sit against the car, then held his phone up in the air and moved it side to side looking for a signal. “Shit! There’s no service.”

Samantha closed her eyes, not allowing herself to panic. “What are we going to do?”

He zipped his jacket all the way up to his chin, closed the hood, then finally looked at her. “You’re going to get back into the car. I’m going to go try to find help.”

“Like hell I am! I’m coming with you.”

“Sammie.” He closed his eyes, his head lulling back to his shoulders. She knew what he was going to say. That it was too dangerous, that he was big and heroic, that he was going to take care of her like the male chauvinistic ass that he was, but instead, he surprised her by looking up again. She waited for him to speak, to tell her why she couldn’t come, but he said nothing. His blue eyes reached hers, making her feet unstable. He finally shook his head, as though not sure what he was getting himself into, and turned on his heels. “Fine.”

It took only a moment for her to recover, to realize she’d actually won the argument, and to hurry after him. How had she won so easily? Why did Tristan Montgomery keep surprising her at every turn? She wasn’t sure of the answer; all she knew was that her teeth were already chattering and she had left her warm jacket back in the car. “Where are we? How close are we to the next town?”

“Iowa,” he answered. But that was all he said. Because he didn’t know how far they were to the next town. He didn’t know anything at all.

Samantha took her phone from her pocket, and held it up to illuminate their path. “Has this ever happened to you before?” she asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure we’re not out of gas?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

Silence.

“Tristan, how do you know?” A chill ran up her spine, though it wasn’t from the cold this time. It was because of him. He raked his fingers through his hair, giving away his stress, and that made her even more nervous. He was the guy who let everything roll off his shoulders. Who didn’t give a shit. But now—

“Because I know my car,” he finally said.

“Oh God,” she whispered. Only to herself, but that didn’t matter.

He stopped dead in his tracks. Turned around, and looked her dead in the eye. “Do you have a problem?”

She clenched her jaw, telling herself to be quiet, but she couldn’t. “Yeah. Actually, I do.” She lifted her chin, higher than she felt confident, and took a step toward him. “I’m supposed to be at my best friend’s bachelorette party in two days. Two. And you’re giving me the cold shoulder and saying things like, ‘I know my car.’ ”

He laughed under his breath and pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets. “What do you want me to say, Samantha? What?”

“I don’t know! I want you to give me a real fucking answer!”

He snapped! Picked up a rock, and threw it into the dark forest—so hard that the sound echoed through the secluded night. He took a breath, as though frustrated and out of control, as though he was trying to compose himself enough to face her.

He finally turned around, his jaw tight and clenched, but so much emotion was etched on his face that her eyes immediately went blurry with regret. It was as though a thick blanket smothered the Tristan she’d known all her life. His confidence, his smile, his easy nature. “It’s my fault, is that what you want me to say? That it’s my fucking fault?”

Tears rushed to her nose and throat. She couldn’t bear to see him this way. “No,” she said. “No, that isn’t it at all.”

He gripped his forehead and turned around again. “I should have never agreed to this. I should have said no.”