He followed her at a decent distance, figuring she’d take the main road (what was the number?) to one of the nearby towns, since he didn’t recognize her or any of her friends. But she didn’t. She actually was heading kind of towards his cabin. It was like fate.

He dropped back a little more, because there wasn’t much traffic along here. He wondered if she was lost. She had taken the second turn; she probably meant to take the one after. His gain.

Brownie’s car disappeared around a curve. Greg shifted in his seat. He could probably manage to reach under the wheel and push aside his panniculus and get to his hard-on but it would be too distracting.

He came around the corner and almost hit her. Her car was stopped, one wheel in the ditch beside the road. She was standing next to it, looking close to tears, staring at her cell phone.

It wouldn’t work out here. He knew that, from frequent visits to his cabin.

He stopped in front of her car and walked back. “Stuck in the ditch huh?” he said, and groaned. Here’s your sign.

Brownie looked up and her eyes widened. “You,” she said.

Greg played dumb. “Do I know you?” He looked at her, frowning.

“You were just at Chil-B-Q. I saw you.”

“Yeah, I was. I don’t remember you, though.”

Oh, stupid. He’d been staring at her. Now she knew he was a liar.

She took a step back.

He smiled. “I remember you. I’m kidding. You were with your two friends.”

Somehow that made it worse.

“Why did you say you didn’t remember me, then?” Clearly she was suspicious.

He put up his hands. He was harmless, really. As long as she didn’t notice the pole in his pants. “I felt funny, like you’d think I was stalking you.”

“Are you?” Her look was direct.

He laughed. “I live down this street. Do you? Maybe you’re stalking me.”

The joke fell flat.

“I’m lost, actually. I was trying to turn around—“ she indicated the stuck car. “And my cell phone’s got no reception out here.”

“I know,” he said with false sympathy. “I have a phone at my place; a regular phone.” And he did, because his mother had to be able to reach him. Most of the time he kept it unplugged.

Brownie stared at him without blinking.

“I can give you a ride there and you can use my phone to call for help. Triple A or whatever.” He smiled; it felt fake.

Her glaze flicked to his truck. “Can you pull me out with that thing?”

Thing? She’d called his truck a thing? “I haven’t got a winch.” He had friends with winches, of course. He could call one of them, once he plugged in the phone, and they’d have her out in a jiffy. He opened his mouth to offer, and thought better of it. The hot rod in his pants (the thought of the words “hot rod” in relationship to what was in his pants made him laugh) suggested slyly that there were other options. He found himself say, “you have triple a or something like that? On star?”

Her big mouth quirked a little. “On star? In that heap?”

The old Ford Escort she was driving was at least ten years old. He wouldn’t be surprised if the drop into the ditch was the last thing it ever did. He noticed the out of state plates. Not likely to be a repeat, then.

He looked at the vehicle a little closer. It did look like her axel was affected; the right front wheel didn’t seem to be at the correct angle, even taking into account the car being canted into the ditch.

“You got to call your folks?” Greg asked. The hot rod brain was making fearsome calculations. He shifted a little, tugging on his sweatpants’ pockets.

She shook her head. “No folks, not anymore. I was in town to meet some friends. I’m on my way south for vacation and I wanted to meet up with some friends from college.”

Older than she looked, then, unless she’d dropped out.

Greg smiled in his most non-threatening manner. “How about I drive you to my place, you call for help. Then I can drop you back here to wait. I can even wait with you if you don’t want to be alone.” He widened his eyes slightly, trying to look innocent.

Brownie looked unconvinced.

“My name is George, by the way,” he added, holding out his meaty hand.

She touched it with the tips of her fingers, not really shaking it. “Susanna,”

Instantly the refrain of that old song popped into his head,”Oh Susanna, don’t you cry for me”—but he did want her to cry, cry out from under him.