Title: The Map to You
Author: Lindy Zart
Publisher: Lyrical Press, an imprint of
Kensington Publishing
Release
Date: November
28th, 2017
Blurb:
Keeping his inner demons at bay
means Blake Malone has more than enough trouble on his plate. He doesn’t need
any extra complications. But that’s exactly what he gets when, on his way to
North Dakota, he leaves his truck unattended—and returns to find a beautiful
woman sleeping in the front seat.
Opal Allen seems to have a
knack for attracting trouble. Which is why she isn’t about to tell her new road
trip companion the real reason she needs to hightail it out of town. But Blake
has a way of seeing right through her, which is both terrifying and
exhilarating. Now her biggest problem is figuring out how to resist their
undeniable attraction. Because once this road trip is over, she plans on never
seeing Blake again.
But the best adventures don’t
go according to plan.
Excerpt:
Last I checked, I was traveling
alone.
I walk to my grandfather’s
truck, a 1987 Ford F-series pickup in blue and white, and blink at the small
form curled up on the seat.
Under the darkened dome of the
sky, it’s hard to discern anything other than the size of the thing inside my
truck, and that it has dark hair. It could be a man, a woman—even a kid. I
quickly scan the parking lot, searching for any accomplices to a premeditated
crime involving yours truly.
It’s the end of August, and the
days can be wicked humid and hot, but the same can’t be said for the nights. I
have on a light jacket to help keep the chill off my skin. I glance into the
cab of the truck. Small as this person is, they have to be feeling the
cold.
The night is still and quiet,
only two other vehicles taking up parking spaces of the 24-hour convenience
store. It’s after midnight on a Wednesday. Most sane people are home and in
bed. I focus on the stranger in my truck. Whatever they’re up to, it’s bound to
be nefarious. I like my share of nefarious dealings, as long as I’m the one
doing them.
Muttering to myself and craving
a cigarette, I carefully set down the plastic bag of chips, beef jerky, and
orange juice I purchased to curb the hunger gnawing at my gut. I rub the
stubble along my jaw, head cocked, as I come to a decision. It’s an easy
one—whoever they are, they can’t stay in my truck.
Hands out, palms down, I
soundlessly skulk around the front of the truck and toward the passenger side.
My eyes shift from side to side in pursuit of any possible friends of theirs
hoping to make my night especially spectacular with a blunt object to the back
of the head. I feel ridiculous, sure I look like the Pink Panther slinking
around in the dark.
My boot kicks a piece of gravel
and it pings against the side of the truck my mother secretly kept in a storage
unit all these years for me. I didn’t even know the truck was still around
until my brother Graham unknowingly drove it from North Dakota to Wisconsin my
last week in the Cheesehead state. I just about cried when I saw it. Just
about, but not quite—because crying would be bad for my image. My throat burned
from keeping it in, though, and when Kennedy, Graham’s girlfriend, commented on
the redness of my eyes, I told her it was a reaction to whatever perfume she’d
doused herself in.
Smooth, that’s me.
I wince, hoping the rock didn’t
do any damage to the truck. This is one of the last pieces I have of the man
who never judged me in all the years he was alive. Good thing for my
grandfather’s untarnished view of me that my life didn’t completely fall to
shit until after he died.
A head snaps up, and large,
dark eyes slam into mine. I freeze against the unexpected jolt of them. The
woman appears youngish, her face pointy and elfin. Her features are
interesting, like it couldn’t be decided whether to make her look exotic or
plain. We study one another for one charged moment, and then whatever had her
immobile collapses. Her mouth opens in a piercing scream, and she scrambles to
the middle of the cab. I jerk back, her reaction startling me.
“What the hell kind of a person
creeps up on someone like that?” she accuses. Her voice is breathless, but
there is an undertone of huskiness that brings my nerve endings to
attention.
I open my mouth with the
intention of apologizing, and then realize what I’m about to do. Scowl taking
over my features, I grip the door handle and pull. She scoots across the
seat with her back to the driver’s side door and, wide-eyed, looks back at
me.
“Get out…of my truck,” I say
slowly, setting my palms on the worn and torn vinyl upholstery to lean forward
menacingly.
