What a Sunday.
Late as always, Rachel rushed out of the shower flying through her expedited morning routine. She whips the towel around drying her tight body, using it afterwards to wrap her long wet hair. Next she applies lotion to her limbs with the speed of light.
Into the closet . . . what to wear?! She never knows whether to try and make a good first impression at these damn things. 'No time', Rachel thinks as she slides her no-show low black panties up over her hips. Bra . . .bra!! Where the hell was her front clasp black bra?! She finds it lying in the second sink -- the one she uses as a 'catch-all' since there's no one to use it. She shrugs into the bra; it slips up over her tan shoulders as she draws the cups over her full breasts and secures the clasp. Just for a second she catches her reflection in the bathroom mirror. If it weren't for the wild-eyed frenzied thing going on with her face she thinks, 'not bad'.
She dabs patchouli oil on her wrists and in the hollow of her neck and discards the towel on the floor. She violently brushes her hair, cussing through the tangles. Back in the closet she selects a simple wrap dress and slips it off the hanger and over her head in one continuous motion. Pulling it down, it falls over her curves and lands flirtatiously at the knee level. She grabs a pair of medium heeled ankle-wrap sandals, her favorite chandelier earrings, and slides on her watch which shows that she's now 20 minutes behind.
Back on the unmade bed, she rushes with her shoes and her earrings. Rachel reaches for her purse, double checking that she has her cell phone and her makeup bag. At the bedroom door she does a final check of the room and spots an earring winking crystal and serene on the end of her messy bed. It's always this way with Rachel - twenty minutes late and 1 earring short. She lunges for the earring and is out the door.
On the highway traffic is inexplicably light and she makes up some time. 'Good Day to Run' is playing loud and she sings out letting the song work to lift her mood. One hand on the steering wheel tapping out the beat, the rearview mirror acting as her makeup mirror, she applies mascara at 70 mph. She loves this song. It makes her wish for a good looking, broad shouldered cowboy in old boots and perfectly broken-in Levi's. One who smells like cologne and beer and can dance like nobody's business. Tall and strong -- spinning her round the dance floor -- the centrifugal force of the two-step point turns fanning her hair around her-- the song and the man filling all her senses. It's so good she can almost feel it.
She's belting out the last stanza and zipping up her makeup bag when the tire blows. Somehow she manages to get the car to the shoulder. Rachel always has a way keeping calm and making the right moves when all hell breaks loose. Rolling to a stop she pushes the button to turn on her flashers. It's then she realizes that her hand is shaking and her breathing is erratic. She grips the steering wheel to settle her nerves and lets out a long loud string of expletives that begins with 'holy' and ends several seconds later with 'son of a bitch'. She closes her eyes and tries to calm down so that she can think of what to do next.
She takes her cell phone out of her purse. She has to call Carol to tell her that she isn't going to make it.
The call goes to voicemail and she listens to Carol's chirpy voice message while watching the cars whoosh past her. Beep! "Hey Carol, it's Rachel. I was on my way but I've just had a blowout. Can you believe it?!! I've had one helluva morning! I woke up late so I've been hauling ass -- I wasn't paying attention. There was probably something in the road. I don't know. I didn't see it. Either that or my freakin' tires are bald. Guess I'm not going to make it. I'm sorry for. . ." The tap, tap at the window startles her. She registers a bronze belt buckle and the tongue of a well worn brown leather belt, jeans, and ½ tucked hem of a navy t-shirt. "Look. I'll call ya later."
"You ok?" he asks. Sam was driving several cars behind her and saw her swerve off the road trailing the remnants of her back passenger tire. Rachel snaps the phone shut and rolls down the window.
"What?" she asks a little dazed.
"You ok?" Sam asks again. "I saw you head off the road. It could've been bad. I just wanted to make sure that you didn't need help."
"Oh. Yeah. I'm fine," she offers weakly.
"Good. Good," Sam says as he bends down to the window. "Gotta spare?" he asks casually.
Rachel stutters, "A what? Oh. Well, to tell you the truth I don't know."
"You don't know if you have a spare?!" He can't help himself, Sam smirks. "Pop the trunk."
"What?! Why?" she retorts rather frazzled.
"Your trunk. I'll check and see if you have a spare."
Rachel is dumbstruck. She's not sure if it's the blowout or the fact that this underwear model of a man has just appeared out of nowhere and is now asking to get into her trunk. He's tall, maybe 6'1" or 6'2" and muscular with wavy dark hair and a chiseled, sun kissed face. She's tongue-tied -- a definite rarity. Instead of sitting there struck stupid she fumbles around trying to find the button to the trunk under the dash. Damn the car makers! Why did they always hide the f-ing buttons!
Sam watches her for a moment and tries hard not to smile. Her long dark hair is loose and wet. As she leans forward to find the trunk release it falls forward and the scent of her hair rises up to his nostrils. It smells feminine and flowery. Through the veil of her long wet locks he can just see her dark seductive eyelashes and the flesh of her cleavage rounding up over her silky black dress. Her skirt had risen part way up her lean, tan, bare thighs. He notices the muscles in her calves as they flex when she presses the heels of her high-heeled sandals against the floorboard. She is flustered and raw and damn if she's not the most beautiful thing Sam thinks he's ever seen.
After a moment he realizes he's staring. He walks back to check out the tire and give her time to compose herself and to find the button. The tire is shredded, and with good reason. There isn't any tread left at all. "Women!" he thinks as he rips a few loose flaps of rubber from the wheel.
Rachel finally finds the button and presses it. She sits up then and takes a deep breath. Just breathe, she tells herself. She checks her rearview to see where he has gone and finds herself looking back in her impromptu 'makeup mirror'. Before adjusting it she checks herself and brushes her hair back from her face. 'Here goes nothing', she sighes and steps out to see if she can help locate the spare.
He is already digging around in her trunk. As she walks to the back of her car she catches him bent over and rummaging. His long legs are set slightly apart showcasing an ass that definitely needs to model underwear. She watches the muscles in his arms dance as he shifts things around -- his shoulders fill out his shirt then narrow into a broad expanse of muscular back and waist. The smooth bronzed skin of his lower back is exposed a little where his t-shirt is coming out of his jeans. God if she doesn't love the rolling plains of a strong man's back.
"Having any luck?" Rachel asks, catching him off guard. Sam rises up startled and strikes his head on the trunk lid.
"Christ!" he exclaims reaching up for the spot of the pain as he extricates himself.
"Oh I'm sorry!" she says, her hands flying up to her face to hide the spontaneous laugh. "Apparently my car's out to kill today."
Rubbing the top of his head Sam turns. "Guess so," he says with a smile. "I'm Sam."
