Roux for Two

Chapter One
 Chelsea Boudreaux pulled her car to the side of the road and put it in park, letting her head fall back against the headrest. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
 The popping sound had resembled a gunshot, or at least what she imagined a gunshot would sound like. The rumbling came hot on its heels, along with a heavy pull to the right. She cut the engine and got out to assess the damage. Not that she needed to. Flat tires didn’t leave much to the imagination.
 Sure enough, the rear wheel on the passenger side slumped, leaving her Fiat with a rather sad lean. “Fuck.”
 She returned to the driver’s side and snagged her phone from the center console, only to find zero service. Not even one lousy bar. “Really, AT&T? I know I’m rocking some backroads, but Jesus. I’m not even an hour outside of New Orleans.”
 She turned a slow circle, arm thrust skyward, as though that might make a difference. It did not. Did it ever?
 She dropped her phone onto the driver’s seat and turned another slow circle, this time looking for any semblance of human activity. Sugarcane fields sprawled on one side of the road, soybeans on the other. A tractor that had seen better days with no one at the wheel. Signs of civilization, but none that would do her any good today. And if she’d done her math right, she was still at least thirty miles from Duchesne.
 She planted her hands on her hips and kicked the tire for good measure, grumbling a few more expletives when pain shot through her big toe. After running through the usual suspects on her swear list, she stopped. It was bad enough to be stuck in the middle of Podunk south Louisiana with a flat tire. She didn’t need to turn into one of those women who talked to themselves on top of it.
 It was fine. It would be fine. She technically knew how to change a tire, even if she’d never been called upon to do it. And it was the middle of the afternoon. Hotter than Hades, but with a decidedly lower risk of being run over by a passing car or kidnapped.
 The pep talk came to an abrupt halt when she realized that the spare—and the jack and that wrench thingy—were tucked away under the floor of the cargo area. The cargo area packed to the roof with boxes and bags of clothes, breakables, and everything else she didn’t entrust to movers. “Son of a bitch.”
 She huffed out a second round of cuss words and stalked to the back of the car, popping the hatch and staring at the contents with dismay. Unfortunately, staring didn’t get them out of her way any faster, so she started unloading. A suitcase and six boxes later, the sound of an approaching car caught her attention. Relief and reticence warred for top billing. Her day was about to get a whole lot better or a whole lot worse.
 The car turned out to be a truck, a vintage Ford painted baby blue and white. Its driver was definitely male, and her anxiety ticked up a few notches. She reminded herself even assholes were rarely serial killers and tried not to think about the other stuff assholes got up to.
 The guy approached slowly, like he could sense, or maybe even appreciate, her apprehension. He wore khakis and an LSU polo shirt. Not that such a dorky look made him harmless, but that combined with his body language managed to render him a lot less menacing.
 “Car trouble or setting up camp?” he asked.
 Since the question came out more comical than condescending, she tipped her head. “I’m attempting to dig out the spare.”
 He laughed. “It’s nice in theory that they’re tucked out of the way, isn’t it?”
 She laughed too. “In theory.”
 He stopped, still a good ten feet shy of where she stood. “I don’t want to presume you need a hand, but I’m happy to offer one.”
 The last of her anxiety vanished. Well, anxiety related to her immediate safety at least. She still had plenty else to worry about, but that would keep for a couple of hours. “I wouldn’t say no.”
 He smiled and something about it felt familiar. Not enough to place him, but considering how many people never left, it was entirely possible they’d crossed paths at some point in her childhood. “Anything back here breakable or otherwise you don’t want me to touch?” His cadence felt familiar, too, though that likely had to do with where they were more than him in particular.
 “A few are fragile, but they’re packed well.”
 He nodded and grabbed a box, adding it to the pile on the ground. “Moving here or moving away?” he asked.
 “Moving back.” It felt funny to say. She never thought she would and even now that she was, she didn’t think of it as coming home.
 He moved another box and looked at her. Like, really looked at her. “To Duchesne?”
 She narrowed her eyes. “How did you know that?”
 He smiled again. “I knew you looked familiar.”
 She wanted to say the same, but he seemed to actually know who she was, and she had nothing more than a vague sense. “Really?”
 “Chelsea, right? Chelsea Boudreaux?”
 It was hard to say whether being recognized made her feel better or worse about standing on the side of the road with a man she couldn’t place. “Yes, that’s right. I feel bad that you remember me, and I can’t place you.”
 He grabbed a duffel bag. “It’s okay. I’ve changed a lot since you last saw me.”
 She racked her brain for someone fatter or skinnier. Or maybe nerdier. Despite the golf-playing, car salesman vibe of his attire, he was attractive. As in, really attractive. Intense blue eyes and brown hair, cut close on the sides but long enough on top