2.Alice Benette
1500 Words
I should’ve known my love life falling apart wouldn’t be the only problem this December.
But when the GPS started spinning like it was possessed and then froze with that friendly little “no signal” message, I knew it: the universe was laughing in my face.
“Perfect. Wonderful. Exactly what I needed,” I complain to absolutely no one, pressing the screen as if violence might magically bring the signal back.
Nothing.
Just the vast Texas countryside stretching endlessly on both sides of the road—pastures, fences, and a few twisted trees bent by the wind. No houses. No gas stations. Not a single living soul.
And, of course… no cellphone signal.
I keep driving for a few more minutes, hoping some miracle internet tower will rise majestically on the horizon.
But no.
What rises instead is a loud, sharp noise.
And then my car jerks violently to the left.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no… you are not doing this to me!”
The car jolts again, and again, and I manage to pull over before the whole thing decides to become scrap metal.
I step out. Look at the tire.
Of course. Flat.
Perfectly, absolutely, completely flat.
“Great. Excellent. Amazing.” I put my hands on my hips and stare at the sky. “Dear universe, if you wanna throw something else at me, go ahead. I’m already in the trash.”
The wind is my only reply.
I grab my cellphone, hold it above my head, take two steps to the right, four to the left…
Nothing.
No signal.
“Cool. I’m gonna die here,” I mutter. “And they’ll find me mummified in the dumbest dress ever made.”
I look at the dress.
Floral. Light. Flowing.
Perfectly paired with my heels.
Fashionable murder scene.
Perfect.
I’m deciding whether to cry or start screaming when, in the distance, a deep engine rumble begins to approach. A pickup truck rounds the curve, kicking up dust behind it, huge, imposing, practically glowing in the sun.
“Please stop,” I murmur. “Please, please, please…”
The truck slows.
Pulls over right in front of me.
And I swear: if there was a “Dangerously Attractive Cowboy” magazine cover, he would have just stepped off of it.
He gets out.
Dark jeans worn in all the right places. Leather boots. A plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves, showing muscles that definitely didn’t come from a gym, but from actual work. And the hat… of course, the cowboy hat.
But it’s the eyes that hit me first.
Blue. Intense. Sharp.
And so beautiful they make me forget I’m in distress.
He stops in front of me—tall. Tall in a way that makes me feel small. Broad shoulders. The posture of someone who carries the weight of his own world.
“You alright?” he asks with that rough, low, Texan-drawl kind of voice straight out of a movie.
Of course. He had to have an accent.
The universe truly hates me.
“My tire blew… and the GPS died… and I’m kind of lost,” I say, trying to seem composed, though my voice is definitely higher than usual.
“Figured.” He eyes my car. “Never seen a tire this dead before.”
I press my lips together.
“Thank you for your professional assessment.”
He raises one eyebrow, almost smiling. Almost.
“You want me to take a look?”
“Yes, please,” I say instantly.
He walks to the tire and examines it. He stays quiet for a few seconds before asking:
“You got a spare?”
I lean against the car, crossing my arms.
“Maybe.”
“‘Maybe’?” He looks at me like I just told him I maybe had three fingers. “You either do or you don’t.”
“My ex used to handle that stuff,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He shakes his head, almost pitying.
“That complicates things.”
“I noticed,” I sigh.
He wipes his hands on his jeans, then asks:
“Where you headed?”
“Snowfall Creek Ranch,” I say, praying he at least knows where it is.
He freezes.
Then laughs.
Not a chuckle—a real laugh.
“What?” I snap.
He gives me a slow once-over.
The floral dress.
The light cardigan.
The heels.
“It’s just… you definitely don’t look like someone heading there.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I lift my chin.
He points at my feet.
“Those won’t last three steps on a ranch.”
Then points to my dress.
“And that’s gonna be mosquito buffet in five minutes.”
“I can change!” I say.
“You got anything else?” he asks, eyebrow raised.
I go silent.
He smiles, victorious.
“Exactly.”
“Sorry I didn’t show up dressed in cowboy prêt-à-porter.”
“Not a costume,” he replies. “It’s work clothes.”
“For you,” I shoot back.
“And for anyone stayin’ on a ranch.”
“I can adapt!”
“Really?” He crosses his arms, giving me a crooked smile. “The way you’re dressed, you look more like someone tryin’ to take aesthetic pictures for i********: captioned ‘simple life.’”
My jaw drops.
“Are you always like this?” I ask. “Sarcastic, arrogant, judgmental?”
“Only when someone shows up in heels on the side of the road pretendin’ they know how to change a tire.”
“I wasn’t pretending!”
“Sure,” he says, clearly not believing me.
I take a step closer.
“You know what? I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“You asked for help.”
“Help, not sarcasm!”
He raises his hands like he’s surrendering.
“Alright then. Handle it yourself. Good luck with that ‘maybe’ spare of yours.”
He turns around.
He is literally leaving.
“Hey!” I shout, offended. “You can’t just leave me here!”
He opens the truck door, completely unbothered.
“I can.”
“You can’t!” I take a few quick steps toward him. “You’re a cowboy! Cowboys help people!”
“I ain’t a movie character,” he says without looking at me.
“But you wouldn’t leave a pregnant woman alone on the side of the road!”
He freezes.
Slowly—very slowly—turns his head toward me.
His eyes drop to my stomach—still discreet, but not invisible.
He exhales. Long. Deep. Resigned.
“Of course…” he mutters. “Of course you are.”
“Yes,” I say, lifting my chin. “Pregnant. Three months. Cleared by my doctor. Before you decide to give me a lecture too.”
He rubs his face with both hands, like he’s desperately holding onto patience.
Then finally:
“Get in the truck.”
“What?”
“Get in. I’ll drive you.”
“Wait,” I say, blinking. “So you’re helping me?”
“No.” He opens the passenger door. “It means if I leave you here, my conscience’ll annoy the hell out of me for a week. Hurry up.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
“Thank you,” I say, trying not to sound victorious.
“Yeah. Don’t thank me yet,” he mutters.
He walks to my trunk and opens it. Tries to lift my suitcase. Manages it, but barely.
“What’d you pack in here?” he complains. “Rocks?”
“Essentials,” I say. “Like clothes and books.”
“Feels like twenty bricks.”
“It’s the basics for a vacation!”
He rolls his eyes but loads everything into the truck anyway, arranging it with irritating efficiency. When he’s done, he taps the trunk like he’s closing a coffin.
“There.”
I walk over, and he opens the door for me. Not politely—impatiently.
“Get in before I change my mind.”
“Are you always this… nice?” I ask.
He gives me a flat stare.
“Only when I’m in a bad mood.”
“So you’re always in a bad mood?”
He huffs a laugh.
“Welcome to Texas, princess.”
I climb into the truck, still a little breathless, and when he rounds the hood to the driver’s side, I notice how the sun hits his shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, that rugged, worn, unfairly handsome face.
He gets in. Starts the engine.
“I’m Alice,” I say.
He doesn’t look at me. Just pulls back onto the road and answers:
“Marco.”
And as the truck carries us deeper into the Texas countryside, I get the strange feeling my life has just become a whole lot more complicated.
- Writer
