Page 3 of Lost With My Enemy

Fourteen days in a vehicle with a man who thinks Tim Hortons is a departure point.

The planner is still open on the counter, tomorrow's schedule a ghost of a life that made sense twelve minutes ago. Grabbing a pen, I cross through every line in one clean stroke and write two words at the top of the blank page underneath.

Survive this.

Then, because I am nothing if not thorough, I add a sub-bullet.

Do NOT kill him.

* * *

At 7:52 the next morning, I pull up to the Tim Hortons on Queen and Spadina in an Uber with my suitcase, my carry-on, my laptop bag, and a printed fourteen-day itinerary I stayed up until 2 AM creating.

The itinerary includes daily mileage targets, pre-booked short-term rentals, meal stops, fuel station locations, and a weather contingency appendix. It's color-coded. It's laminated.

A mud-splattered pickup truck is idling in the parking lot with the windows down. There's a canoe strapped to the roof, a duffel bag visible through the back window, and a sticker on the bumper that reads TAKE THE SCENIC ROUTE.

A man climbs out of the driver's side. Ball cap pulled low, flannel shirt unbuttoned over a faded t-shirt, hiking boots that have seen actual hiking. Brown eyes that crinkle before the rest of his face catches up to whatever he finds amusing, which appears to be me.

"Elise?"

"You brought a canoe."

His grin widens. "You brought a binder."

My grip tightens on the laminated itinerary.

Fourteen days. One truck. One canoe I did not budget for.

This is going to be a disaster.

CHAPTER TWO

JAXON

Griffin warned me. Said his friend Sloane had a friend who needed a ride to Calgary, that she was "organized" and "intense" and "you'll either love her or she'll make you want to drive into a lake, but either way it'll be entertaining."

Griffin undersold it.

Elise Boyd is standing in the Tim Hortons parking lot at 7:52 AM on a Sunday morning in August, wearing pressed trousers, a silk blouse, and shoes with actual heels. For a road trip. Her auburn hair is cut into a sleek bob that looks expensive, and her posture suggests she's never slouched a day in her life. There's a suitcase beside her that probably has a packing list taped inside the lid, a carry-on with a monogrammed luggage tag, and a laptop bag slung across one shoulder with the strap adjusted to the exact millimeter.

And she's holding a laminated document.

"You brought a canoe," she says, staring at the roof of my truck with an expression I'd describe as quiet horror.

"You brought a binder."

Her grip tightens on whatever that laminated thing is. "It's an itinerary."

"For a road trip?"

"For a four-thousand-kilometre drive across a country with unpredictable weather, limited cell service in northern Ontario, and exactly one major highway for most of the route. Yes. For a road trip."

She says it with the confidence of someone who's never taken a wrong turn on purpose, and the conviction of someone who considers wrong turns a moral failing.

This is going to be fun.

"Cool. Want a Timbit?" The box is sitting on the passenger seat. Double chocolate, old fashioned plain, and a couple of sour cream glazed because they're underrated.