One Week (Stolen Kiss #0.5) Read Online Free PDF Page A

of the truck and started walking toward my car. He was tall and lean, dressed in faded jeans and a white T-shirt. Brown hair hung around his shoulders.
    This was definitely a horror movie in the making. I discreetly hit the lock button on my door and then squeezed my fists until my nails dug into my palms.
    I jumped at the tap on the window next to my head. The guy leaned down to look in at me, his wide gray eyes studying me. He looked young, probably around my age. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen at the most.
    “Need some help?” he called through the window.
    Rule #4: Never ask for help.
    I shook my head. “No, thank you. Someone will be along any minute, I’m sure.”
    He looked around the quiet, empty street. “I guess I’m someone. You got a spare tire?”
    “You don’t have to do that,” I called to him. “Really. I’ll call roadside assistance.” I fumbled for my phone. He didn’t know that I couldn’t get a signal.
    Unfortunately, I managed to knock the phone into the tiny crevice between the console and the passenger seat.
    “It’ll only take a minute,” the guy said. “No need to call for help.”
    Before I could stop him, he walked to the back of my car and disappeared behind the open trunk door. I could hear him rattling around and the car shook back and forth. After a moment, he pulled the spare tire out and rolled it over to the front of the car.
    “I’ll need you to get out while I jack the car up,” the guy called.
    Get out? Of the car? I stared at him for a long moment, but he made no movement to leave. I crawled over the console and climbed out of the passenger side, keeping the car as a barrier between us.
    Stranger guy didn’t comment on my weird behavior. I watched as he worked, taking in how the sun shone a glowing halo on the top of his hair and how his shirtsleeves rode up as he moved, revealing nicely muscled arms and the black edges of a tattoo.
    My mother’s voice sang out in my head again, Tattoos are for bikers and prostitutes, Hannah.
    After a few moments, the guy eased my car back down, removed the jack, and then rolled the flat tire to the trunk. He shut the trunk door and returned to the front of the car, wiping his hands on his jeans.
    “You ran over something big,” he said. “Not sure what it was, maybe a piece of metal in the road.”
    I stared stupidly at him for a moment, before I was able to croak out, “Okay.”
    The guy nodded to me and then straightened, turning around and walking toward his truck, like that was it. Like he hadn’t just done me a huge favor.
    “Wait,” I said as I hurried after him. He stopped and I skidded to a halt a safe distance from him.
    “Thank you,” I said.
    He nodded again. “No problem.” He started walking toward his truck, reaching for the handle.
    People didn’t just do things for other people without getting something in return. My dad had always taught me to never be indebted to someone. Rule #21: Even the score as soon as possible.
    “Do you want money?” I blurted out.
    He looked at me, crinkling his nose. “Money?”
    I held up a finger to him and then dashed back to my car, reaching in for my purse. I found my checkbook and then walked to my trunk as I opened the little book.
    “How much do I owe you?” I asked, clicking my pen.
    He raised one eyebrow. “For what?”
    I shrugged. “For changing my tire. Isn’t that how this usually works? There are people who get paid to change tires every day.”
    He shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything. Just doing my good deed for the day.”
    “You’ve got to want something.”
    “You’ve already said thank you, that’s enough.” He pulled the truck’s driver side door open, which squeaked in protest.
    “I’m not looking for a boyfriend,” I said.
    He wrinkled his nose. “Neither am I.”
    My neck flushed hot. “I mean, I’m not going out with you for changing my tire. Just so you know.”
    “That’s a little