Chapter 1 — The Mix-Up at Pump No. 7
Maya
Rain slicked the windshield in hurried streaks, blurring the faded red roofline of Pump No. 7 as Maya Winters squinted through her wipers. She tugged her jacket tighter as she stepped out of the car, cringing when icy droplets instantly soaked through the thin sleeves. The smell of gasoline and wet asphalt hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint rustle of wind through the scrubby trees lining the highway. It was a stop like a hundred others she’d made—unassuming, a pause between destinations. Yet, as she glanced toward the bold number "7" painted on the pump, a strange weight settled in her chest. Just another pit stop, she told herself, but the day felt like it was teetering on the edge of something—unexpected.
The pump clicked off, jolting her from her thoughts. Maya glanced at the meter and frowned. Forty bucks. Her dwindling funds tightened in her mind like a coiled spring. Tugging her card from her pocket, she tapped it against the reader. The screen flashed red with an error message. She tried again. Still nothing.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, shoving the card back in her pocket. The rain plastered auburn strands to her face as she jogged toward the gas station. Puddles splashed around her boots, the damp chill biting at her. She instinctively reached for the leather bracelet on her wrist, her thumb brushing over the compass charm. The familiar motion steadied her, if only slightly.
The tinny jingle of the gas station doorbell and the buzz of fluorescent lighting greeted her as she entered. The small convenience store smelled of sour coffee and old candy, wrappers scattering the counter like forgotten confetti. The hum of a soda machine droned faintly in the background. Behind the register, a teenage cashier slouched over his phone, barely acknowledging her.
“Hey,” Maya said briskly, brushing rainwater from her sleeve. “The pump isn’t taking my card. Can I just pay in here?”
The cashier glanced up lazily, his face a monument to disinterest. “Someone already paid for Pump Seven,” he mumbled, jerking a thumb toward a clipboard by the register.
“What?” Maya leaned closer, green eyes narrowing. “No, that’s not possible. I just got here.”
The door jingled again, letting in a gust of rain—and someone else. Maya turned, her gaze landing on a tall, broad-shouldered man shaking droplets from his dark, tousled hair. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a garage, grease-streaked T-shirt clinging to his frame, faded jeans scuffed at the knees, and thick work boots leaving muddy prints on the tile. Hazel eyes flicked toward her, mild curiosity glinting in their depths.
“Something wrong?” he asked, his voice low and steady, with the barest hint of amusement undercutting his tone.
“Yeah.” Maya folded her arms, sizing him up with a quick glance. “Apparently, someone paid for my gas, which is news to me because I haven’t paid yet.”
“That’d be me.” He shrugged, his tone casual, as though this were the most natural mishap in the world. “Thought it was for my truck at Pump Six. Guess I hit the wrong button.”
Maya stared at him. “So… you just bought my gas?”
“Looks like it.” He scratched the back of his neck, his expression unreadable. “No big deal. I’ll fix it with the cashier.”
“Wait,” she said quickly, stepping forward as he turned toward the counter. “I’ll pay you back. I don’t take handouts.”
His lips twitched, the faintest flicker of amusement breaking through his calm demeanor. “It’s forty bucks. Relax.”
“No.” Her tone sharpened, nearly snapping. “I insist.”
He sighed, pulling a worn wallet from his back pocket. “You don’t even have cash on you, do you?”
Of course she didn’t, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “That’s not your business.”
Before she could argue further, the sound of a loud, ominous *clunk* echoed from outside, cutting through the rain. Both of them turned toward the door. He raised an eyebrow.
“That your car?” he asked.
Maya’s stomach sank. “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” she said quickly, though even she could hear the hollowness in her words.
He didn’t respond, already heading outside into the rain, his strides unhurried and deliberate. Maya hesitated before following, her boots squelching against the wet asphalt.
By the time she caught up, he was crouched by the hood, listening to the strained sputtering noises as her car failed to start. Rainwater trickled down his dark hair, plastering it to his forehead. He straightened, shaking his head.
“Busted serpentine belt,” he said matter-of-factly, wiping his hands on his jeans. “You’re not driving anywhere with that.”
“Perfect.” Maya dragged a hand over her damp face, frustration bubbling beneath her skin. “Just perfect.” She turned to him, suspicion lacing her voice. “You wouldn’t happen to know a mechanic, would you?”
“You’re looking at one.” His hazel eyes gleamed faintly, though his tone remained perfectly even.
Maya narrowed her eyes. “How convenient.”
“Believe me,” he said, a hint of dry humor threading through his words, “if I’d planned this, I’d have picked drier weather.” He gestured toward the beat-up truck parked at the next pump, its flatbed scattered with tools. “I work in the next town over. I can tow you there, but it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. The garage is closed today.”
“I can’t wait until tomorrow,” she said, her frustration spilling over. “I have somewhere to be.”
“Then call a tow service.” He leaned casually against the side of her car, crossing his arms. “But they’ll charge you double what I would. And good luck getting anyone out here in this weather.”
Maya clenched her fists, her pride stinging under his steady, almost smug gaze. The worst part? He was right. She didn’t have cash to throw away, and the rain wasn’t letting up. With a sharp sigh, she forced herself to meet his eyes.
“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “What’s your rate?”
He scratched his jaw, considering her for a moment. “Tell you what—how about a trade?”
Her eyes narrowed further. “What kind of trade?”
“Photos.”
She blinked. “Photos?”
“I’ve got some sketches I need photographed for a gallery exhibit,” he explained, nodding toward the camera hanging around her neck. “And I don’t trust myself to get the lighting right. You’re a photographer, right?”
Her hand instinctively tightened around the strap. “How do you know I’m not just a tourist?”
He shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Call it a hunch. That camera’s not cheap, and you’ve got the look of someone who knows her way around it.”
Maya hesitated, her mind racing. She hated being indebted to anyone, let alone this infuriatingly calm stranger. But his proposal wasn’t unreasonable. And despite herself, the thought of working with an artist intrigued her.
“Fine,” she said again, her voice losing some of its bite. “But only because I don’t want to spend the night stranded here.”
“Fair enough.” He extended a hand, his calloused palm streaked with faint grease stains. “Lucas Reed.”
“Maya Winters.” She shook his hand briefly, her grip firm before retreating.
Lucas nodded toward his truck. “I’ll grab the tow chain. Pop the hood for me.”
As he walked off, Maya glanced back at Pump No. 7. Rain slid down the bold number, its faded paint standing out against the gray blur of the storm. The odds of this encounter buzzed faintly in her mind—an unlikely mix-up, a stranger with an offer, and her carefully laid plans unraveling.
With a faint sigh, she opened the hood. This was just another stop, she told herself. Temporary. Fleeting. Nothing more.
But as Lucas returned, his steady presence cutting through the rain, she felt something shift. And for reasons she couldn’t name, she glanced back at Pump No. 7 once more.
