Trucker Wife's Midnight Stalker - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Vincent's satisfied grin vanished in an instant, replaced by a deep frown.
"What the hell? What's wrong with it? This truck's fresh off the lot!"
The new rig had all the latest tech—including automatic diagnostics. His finger jabbed at a blinking tire warning light.
"Goddammit. Must've hit those nails back on the highway. Saw a whole mess of 'em scattered in one spot."
Without another word, he threw open the door and jumped out.
Heart pounding, I scrambled after him—but not before quickly smoothing my clothes.
As I stepped outside, my eyes darted around. Was that good-looking stranger still here?
Relief washed over me. No sign of him.
Vincent kept muttering curses under his breath.
"Son of a bitch! Not just a flat—something else is screwed up too. Brand-new truck, and now I'm stuck with repairs?"
He yanked out his phone and started dialing.
I didn't know squat about trucks, but one thing was obvious—we weren't moving anytime soon.
The sky darkened, and unease prickled down my spine.
I'd wanted to get the hell out of this awkward place. Now we were stranded.
The mechanics showed up fast. Yanking off the tire was easy.
But the busted parts needed replacing—and they didn't have the right ones on hand. Said they'd be back.
Night fell. Our stomachs growled in unison.
Vincent went to grab food and water.
Exhausted, I climbed back into the truck and curled up in the backseat, drifting toward sleep.
Then—large hands gliding over my body.
I tried to pry my eyes open, but drowsiness dragged me under. Must be Vincent.
With the repair costs putting him in a foul mood, maybe he needed to blow off steam.
Still half-asleep, I rolled over, arching my back against the seat in silent invitation.
The position was shameless, but after today, those buried urges had only gotten stronger.
If Vincent needed release, I wasn't saying no.
His hands pulled away—then his full weight pressed against me, hot lips searing my neck.
That's when I realized—this wasn't Vincent.
The man behind me was solid muscle, nothing like my husband's lean frame.
Who the hell—?!
I jerked awake.
"Lucky bastard, scoring big on this haul. My cargo's worthless scrap this time, plus this damn breakdown..."
Vincent's voice drifted through the window. He must've run into someone he knew.
Hearing him, my eyes flew wide—confirming my worst fear.
I whipped my head around.
BANG! The man bolted like a spooked deer, vanishing out the door in a flash.
Flushed and panting, I caught a glimpse of his profile as he fled.
Him. The guy from the other truck—the one who'd been staring at me.
He'd been watching me this whole time.
The thought of that strapping young stranger—undoubtedly more vigorous than Vincent—sent fresh heat to my cheeks.
His athletic build stirred something dangerous in me.
Shame quickly doused the fantasy. What the hell is wrong with me?
Vincent yanked the door open and shoved a paper bag at me.
"Eat something. Mechanics are bringing parts. We're staying overnight once they're done."
He scarfed down his food, took a swig of whiskey, then went back out to hover over the repairs.
Hours passed before he finally returned to the cab.