She Hit a Pothole on Her Way Home, Never Guessing the Man Who Stops Is Millionaire Who Falls for Her
A Chance Encounter in the Rain
Daria Whitlo was already running late when her front right tire exploded with a sound that made her stomach drop. Her little silver sedan jerked violently to the right and she swerved, gripping the wheel with both hands as she rolled to a shaky stop.
Rain tapped against the windshield and her headlights illuminated the pothole she just slammed into: wide, deep, and completely unavoidable.
“Seriously,” she muttered, banging her head gently against the steering wheel.
She popped the door open, stepping into a shallow puddle with a soaked ballet flat.
“Of course,” she grumbled, staring at the deflated tire.
Daria worked two jobs—one at the downtown bookstore and another cleaning offices late at night. Her third job, unpaid but full-time, was being her own rescue service. She grabbed her phone to call roadside assistance, but her screen blinked red with a dead battery.
She let out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh.
“Perfect.”
A pair of headlights appeared in her rearview mirror. The sleek black car slowed, then stopped a few yards behind her. For a split second her nerves spiked; she was alone, it was dark, and her phone was dead.
Then the driver stepped out—a man in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, with dark slacks clinging to long legs. He looked more like someone stepping out of a fashion magazine than someone who should be anywhere near this stretch of pothole-ridden road.
“You okay?” he called out.
Daria eyed him wearily.
“Flat tire.”
He approached, and as he got closer she caught the sharp cut of his jaw and his slightly tasseled dark blonde hair. His eyes were a striking steel blue, and the way he looked at her made her heart skip just slightly.
“I can take a look if you want,” he offered.
She crossed her arms.
“You know how to change a tire in those shoes?”
He looked down at his polished leather loafers and grinned.
“Not ideal, but I’ve done worse.”
Still hesitant, Daria watched as he crouched next to her car inspecting the damage.
“You hit it square on,” he said, glancing up at her. “Rims bent, too. Spare won’t help much.”
“Great,” she muttered, running a hand through her wet hair.
He stood, brushing his hands on his trousers.
“Your phone dead?”
He nodded like that didn’t surprise him.
“I’ve got mine in the car. I can call a tow for you or…”
He hesitated.
“I can give you a ride. I’m heading into the city anyway.”
Daria looked him over. He didn’t seem like a psycho, just very put together—too put together.
“I don’t usually take rides from strangers,” she said.
“Understandable. I’m York Nalin.”
He extended a rain-dampened hand.
“Not a psycho.”
She stared.
“York?”
“Yeah, my parents were artistic.”
She cracked a smile despite herself.
“Daria. Nice to meet you.”
“Daria. You can sit in the car while we wait for the tow if you’re more comfortable with that.”
She watched him for another moment then nodded.
“Okay, but if you try anything…”
“I’ll end up with a stiletto in my neck,” he finished. “Got it.”
She climbed into the passenger seat of his car—an Aston Martin. She realized this as soon as she sank into the buttery leather and smelled the impossibly expensive cologne that clung to the upholstery.
“This is your car?” she asked, glancing around the luxurious interior.
“Yep.”
“What do you do, sell kidneys?”
He let out a soft laugh.
“Software. Boring stuff.”
He dialed the towing service, gave them the location, and turned to her.
“They’ll be here in twenty minutes. You live far?”
“Edge of the city, near Grant and Pine.”
“I can take you.”
She hesitated.
“You really don’t have to.”
“I’m offering.”
She looked at him again. There was something steady in his eyes, something calm. He felt like someone used to being in control of a room, but in a quiet, confident way rather than an arrogant one.
“Okay,” she said finally.
They drove in silence for a bit, the soft hum of the engine the only sound. Then he glanced over at her.
“So what do you do when you’re not hitting potholes?”
She snorted.
“Work, mostly. I do inventory at a used bookstore downtown and clean offices at night.”
He frowned.
“That’s a lot.”
Daria shrugged.
“Rent’s a lot.”
“Fair,” he said.
But there was something thoughtful in his tone. When he pulled up in front of her building—an old brick complex with flickering hallway lights—he didn’t comment on the neighborhood. He just parked and turned to her.
“Can I give you my number?”
She blinked.
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to see you again. Maybe without potholes involved.”
She stared at him.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know you’re funny.”
“And you handled a flat tire in the rain better than most people I know,” she hesitated.
“I don’t usually—”
“Me neither,” he said, his voice low. “But I don’t want to not try.”
Something about the way he said it made her heart twist just a little.
“I don’t have my phone,” she said. “Obviously.”
He reached into the glove box and pulled out a pen. Then he handed her a business card and wrote a number on the back.
“That’s my cell. If you want, text me tomorrow or whenever.”
Daria stepped out, still holding the card.
“Thank you,” she said, pausing before she closed the door.
He gave her a small smile.
“Good night, Daria.”
As she walked up the steps she looked down at the card: York Nalin, Nalin Dynamics. She frowned because the name sounded familiar and expensive.
Inside she flipped open her ancient laptop and typed it in. The first headline read: “York Nalin, millionaire CEO of Nalin Dynamics, acquires another tech startup in billion-dollar expansion.”
Daria stared at the screen. She had just cursed out, insulted the shoes of, and been driven home by a millionaire—and he wanted to see her again.
