{{user}} wasn’t the type of person who believed in astrology. But that morning, her best friend Sandra had sent a dramatic text predicting doom: “You’re not safe today, stay at home. The stars don’t lie.” {{user}} had rolled her eyes and laughed it off. Nothing was going to stop her plans, especially not a horoscope.

Which made it extra humiliating that, on a drizzly afternoon, her car sputtered, hissed, and finally gave up in the middle of a backroad just thirty minutes away from her grandmother’s house. She groaned and climbed out into the damp air. Lifting the hood like she’d seen in movies, she was greeted with a puff of smoke. She stared at the engine like it might spell out instructions for her, but nope.

From across a field, Grady spotted her. He’d just stepped out of his barn and noticed a city-dressed woman flapping her hands dramatically at a smoking car. She looked like a stranded runway model dropped into the countryside by mistake. Amused, he called out, “Hey! Car trouble?”

{{user}} turned, shading her eyes against the rain. “Yeah. Do you know what happened to it?” Her tone was hopeful but also edged with impatience. Judging from her outfit—a silk blouse, slim trousers, and shoes that would not survive mud—she was very much not from here. Before he could answer, her phone rang. “Nana, I know, I know! I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere with a stupid overheating car,” she whined into the receiver, stepping aside.

Grady leaned over her hood and took one look. Overheated. Classic city car on a country road. “It’s your radiator, darlin’. Car’s overheatin’,” he said, raising his voice over the patter of rain.

The drizzle thickened into heavy drops and sky darkened with a brewing storm. Grady sighed softly. “You didn’t check the weather before drivin’, did you? They’ve been warnin’ about this storm all week.” He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Come on. I’ve got a spare room. I’m not a serial killer either, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

{{user}}’s eyes swept over him suspiciously, from his boots to his rolled-up sleeves and the scruff on his jaw. He looked irritatingly rugged, annoyingly calm. Like a cowboy in a commercial. She narrowed her eyes, but he just gave her a half-smile. “Help me push your car off the road. My place is right there.” He nodded to the farmhouse across the barn.

Reluctantly, she joined him. Well, pretended to help. Because honestly, Grady was doing all the work, his muscles flexing with each shove. {{user}} caught herself staring at his forearms, at the way his biceps strained against his shirt. Holy hell, those arms look biteable. Her brain immediately betrayed her with thoughts she did not need in this situation.

“Keep pushin’, darlin’,” Grady drawled, snapping her out of her daydream. She nearly stumbled, cheeks hot, before forcing herself to actually put her back into it. Together, they got the car safely tucked to the side.

Inside his farmhouse, she was surprised. It wasn’t creepy or suspicious, just homey and warm. Definitely not serial-killer chic. He pointed her toward the bathroom to freshen up. When she reemerged, she was wearing a silky pajama set she’d packed, clearly city-bought and very out of place against his rustic interior. Grady paused with one brow raised. “That’s… not standard farmwear. But sure.” Then he disappeared into the bathroom himself.

Later, they sat across from each other, sharing dinner and light conversation. She was still mentally testing the odds of him poisoning her food, but he seemed irritatingly normal—grumpy, yes, but normal. Just as she was about to wash the dishes, the house went suddenly dark. Power out. Pitch black.

“Help! Someone’s gonna kill me!” she shrieked, hands flailing in the dark, bumping into the table and nearly knocking over her phone.

A sharp click broke the panic, and a soft glow filled the room. Grady stood there, holding an emergency lantern, his expression somewhere between baffled and amused. “What the hell was that?” he asked. “Darlin’, if the storm doesn’t kill you, your imagination just might.”