She stared blindly out the windshield into the night with the thick swirling snow, her chest tight, aching with bottled air.

Of all people to stop…

Of all people to offer to help.

Why did it have to be him?

And worse, why couldn’t he be arrogant, and rude, and absolutely despicable? Dislikable? Why did he have to be almost… charming?

Nice.

She shuddered inwardly, thinking that he might even be disarmingly nice, if he weren’t, well, so…good looking. Jane hadn’t lied about that. He was…well, exactly what she’d said he was.

Tall, dark and handsome…black hair, blue eyes, chiseled jaw, dimples.

A man with all those attributes couldn’t be nice. Truly handsome men were never nice. They were spoiled, overly confident, insincere. They were accustomed to women falling to their feet and throwing themselves at them, bosoms heaving… and so forth.

Taylor’s lips compressed and she lifted her chin a fraction.

She couldn’t place all the blame on handsome men. Women had to accept some responsibility for their behavior. Just because a man was gorgeous and charming it didn’t mean a woman needed to fall for him…

Taylor would never fall for someone like Troy Sheenan.

At least, she’d never fall for someone like Troy Sheenan again.

Back in graduate school she’d fallen for a Mr. Charming, and it had broken her heart and damaged her confidence and self-esteem. She’d vowed to never go down that destructive, confusing path again. And she hadn’t.

She wouldn’t.

She pushed up her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose, suddenly grateful she’d worn them to work today, feeling protected by the big dark frames and the too-thick-to-be-sexy lenses.

She wasn’t a plaything, or an intellectual lightweight. Yes, she loved historical romances, and had ever since she’d first read Jane Austen in high school, and then found a Georgette Heyer novel in the local library during her summer vacation. By the time Taylor had graduated with a Masters in Library Science, she’d read everything Heyer wrote (even the mysteries), including a biography just published on the English novelist, and Heyer’s work ethic, intelligence, and drive made an indelible impression on Taylor. If Heyer could support her family with her writing in the 1920’s and 30’s, then Taylor could support her brother with her work.

Taylor didn’t need a man or husband to provide. Taylor would provide. And she had. Which reminded her, she’d need to call her insurance agent as soon as she reached the house, and a tow truck, and make arrangements for a rental car. She sighed inwardly, disappointed in herself for losing control on the pass. There were a lot of things going on this week. She didn’t need the hassle of being car-less on top of everything else.

Leaning forward, she reached for her oversized leather satchel at her feet. Taylor didn’t use purses. She loved her messenger-style book bag and she quickly found the satchel’s inner pocket where she kept her phone. Retrieving it, she checked messages but there was no service. They’d get service when they got closer to Marietta and that wouldn’t be long now.

“You said you were new in town,” Troy said, his deep, low voice breaking the silence.

She nodded as his dark blue gaze briefly slid over her in the dim light of the car before his gaze returned to the road.

She exhaled, hard.

He’d only looked at her for a moment but it was enough to make her insides flip, setting loose a dozen butterflies in her middle. She pressed her phone to her lap, and drew a deep breath to calm the nervous butterflies. “I moved to Marietta at the end of August, right before Labor Day weekend.”

“What do you think of the place?”

“I like it.”

“People nice?”

She thought of Judge McCorkle and how he’d handled the sentencing of her brother. She thought also of those who’d been so critical towards Jane and her ideas for the Chamber of Commerce. “Most people.”

He shot her another swift glance. “You’ve met some less than friendly folks?”

There went the butterflies again. She shifted, uneasy.