Grace's Backseat Confession Heat

Rain hammered the windshield of my old pickup truck like it was trying to break through, the wipers slapping back and forth in a frantic rhythm that matched the storm raging outside. Thunder rolled across the dark Quebec countryside, lightning cracking the sky open every few minutes, illuminating the endless stretch of highway flanked by dense pine forests. I was Étienne Duval, a trucker hauling lumber from the northern mills back to Montreal, just trying to make it home before the roads turned to rivers. That's when I saw her—Grace Lévesque, standing on the shoulder with her thumb out, soaked to the bone, her caramel hair plastered in a messy top knot, pale skin glistening under the flashes of light. She looked like a ghost from one of those old folklore tales my grandmother told, mischievous eyes pleading through the downpour. I pulled over, heart skipping a beat because something about her screamed trouble, but those brown eyes locked on mine through the passenger window, oval face framed by dripping strands, slim 5'6" frame shivering in a tight hoodie and jeans that clung like a second skin. Canadian winters were brutal, but this storm felt personal, charged with something electric. 'Get in,' I yelled over the roar, and she bolted, sliding into the cab with a grateful gasp. Up close, she was even more striking—medium bust pressing against wet fabric, narrow waist accentuating her athletic slim build. We didn't talk much at first; she just stared out at the storm, fingers twisting a locket around her neck. I could sense the weight on her—fleeing something, someone. Victor, she muttered later, some psycho ex with threats hanging over her like this thunder. The air between us thickened, her teasing smile flickering despite the fear, like she was daring the night to...