Page 63 of Enchanted to Meet You

“I’m not overthinking,” I lied, leaning my head back against the headrest and stretching my legs out toward the dashboard. “I’m just worried how I’m going to survive three days in a house with Kelcey without punching her.”

Rhys let out a low laugh that sent a tiny shiver down my spine. “That, I can understand. But don’t worry—your job is just to sit there, look pretty, and act like you actually enjoy my company.”

“That’s going to require an Oscar-worthy performance.”

“Ouch,” he said, though the grin on his face said he didn’t care at all. He reached over, his long fingers lightly tapping the side of my knee before returning to the steering wheel. The brief touch left my skin burning. “You’re a terrible fake girlfriend.”

“You get what you pay for, Montgomery.”

I looked out the window, watching the green pine trees start to cluster thicker along the side of the highway. The granite rock faces—the Canadian Shield—were beginning to erupt out of the dirt, jagged and gray against the bright moss. I’d never seen anything like it before I moved here. The air was filled with the strange mix of the scent of pine and exhaust fumes.

“I’m starving,” Rhys announced an hour and a half later. “And I need gas before we get off the main strip. We’re stopping.”

He yanked the wheel, pulling us into a sprawling, sun-bleached gas station that was practically overflowing with cottagers. Pick-up trucks hauling Jet Skis, station wagons loaded with canoes, and SUVs packed with teenagers were idling everywhere.

Rhys pulled up to an open pump, killed the engine, and swung his long legs out of the truck. The sudden silence when the engine died felt heavy and thick, filled only with the hum of the highway and the classic rock blasting from a nearby boat trailer.

I stepped out as well, my sandals slapping against the hot asphalt. It had cooled down significantly since we started driving and I was suddenly very grateful for my sweater.

“Go inside and get whatever you want,” Rhys said, flipping open his fuel cap and grabbing the gas nozzle. He tossed his wallet toward me, and I caught it effortlessly against my chest. “Get me a Gatorade. Blue one.”

“I’m paying for my own snacks,” I said, trying to hand it back.

Rhys raised an eyebrow, his hands busy with the pump. “Ainsley, take the card. Or I’ll buy five bags of those weird dill pickle chips you hate and force you to eat them.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

I glared at him, but my lips twitched. I turned and walked toward the air-conditioned bliss of the gas station store, my flip-flops squeaking slightly on the pavement. Inside, the store was chaotic and alive with summer energy. Groups of teenagers in swim trunks and cover-ups were crowding around the slushie machines, giggling and snapping photos, while dads in faded polo shirts argued over bags of ice. Everyone who had left town at the end of their school or work day ready to get back to lake season.

I walked down the snack aisle, grabbing a bag of salt and vinegar chips, a couple of chocolate bars, and two cold bottles of blue Gatorade from the glass fridge at the back. When I walked back out into the dazzling sunlight, Rhys was leaning against the bed of his SUV, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the crowds.

He had taken off his sunglasses and tucked them into the collar of his T-shirt. With the harsh lights of the gas station catching the sharp line of his jaw and the messy hair falling into his eyes, he looked so unfairly, effortlessly attractive that it made it hard to breathe.

“Took you long enough,” he said when I approached. He stepped forward to take the heavy plastic bag from my hands. “Did you have to fight someone for the last chocolate bar?”

“No, but I considered fighting the cashier when he tried to charge six dollars for a bag of chips,” I said, leaning back against the side of the car next to him. The metal was hot through my clothes. “Here’s your wallet.”

He took it, his fingers brushing against mine. Instead of pulling away immediately, his thumb brushed lightly over the back of my hand, a subtle, lingering movement that made my heart hammer wildly against my ribs.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.

I swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing, how he smelled like cut grass and sandalwood, and how the soft summer breeze ruffled his perfectly messy hair and how my fingers itched to brush it off his face. I took a quick sip of my cold Gatorade just to give my hands something to do.

“We should get going,” I said, my voice coming out a little breathless. “Before traffic gets worse.”

“Right,” Rhys said, though he didn’t move for another three seconds, his green eyes locked on mine. Then he snapped back into motion, tossing the bag of snacks through the open window onto the seat and hopping back into the driver’s side.

Only twenty minutes later, we turned off the main highway onto the winding, two-lane backroads that led toward Carling Beach. The atmosphere shifted instantly. The thick forest closed in on either side of the pavement, creating a canopy of vibrant green leaves that dappled the sunlight bouncing off the windshield. Every few miles, a flash of bright, sparkling blue water peeked through the trees as we passed the hundreds of lakes that made up the cottage country.

Rhys drove faster here, leaning into the tight turns with a casual confidence that made my stomach drop on the steep hills.

Rhys hit the power window buttons, sending both front windows sliding all the way down. Immediately, a rush of hot, rushing air slammed into the cab, whipping my loose brown hair wild around my face. The noise of the engine, the wind, and the heavy bass from the speakers filled the space between us until it felt like we were floating in our own little fast-moving bubble.

“Hair tie!” I yelled over the roar of the wind, trying to haul my hair back out of my eyes.

Rhys didn’t even turn his head. He reached into his cupholder with one hand, pulled out a black hair elastic, and flipped it into my lap.