She hopped out of the sedan and walked around it to inspect the front passenger-side wheel. Her spirits instantly sank. Crap. What on earth had she run over? The tire was completely punctured, and it didn’t take long to find the culprit—a two-inch nail wedged in the jagged flap of rubber that had come loose. On the bright side, the rim seemed to be in good shape.
Opening the passenger door, she leaned in to shut off the engine and yank the keys out of the ignition. “Guess what,” she told the twins.
“What?” they said in unison.
“Your mom is about to change a tire for the first time in her life.”
She expected cheers and high fives and maybe some encouragement. Instead, she got two dubious looks.
“That sounds hard,” Sophie said frankly.
Jason offered a thoughtful look. “You can call Sef. Sef can help.”
Miranda bristled. She was not calling Seth to come to her rescue. She was perfectly capable of rescuing herself, the way she’d done her entire life. She’d never needed a man to save her before, and she didn’t need one now.
She’d definitely call him later, though. They hadn’t had much of a chance to connect this week—she’d been busy at work and with the twins, and Seth had been away for two days on a training mission in the desert. The timing had actually worked out well because she had her period and she wasn’t one of those women who enjoyed sex during her time of the month. But now that her lady parts were functioning at full capacity again, she was suffering from some serious Seth withdrawal.
But there was still no way she was calling him to bail her out.
“Don’t get out of the car. I mean it, guys.” She shot them a warning look, then closed the door and rounded the sedan.
She unlocked the trunk and lifted the floormat, peering into the compartment to inventory its contents. Spare tire, jack, wrench thingie.
Tire iron, dummy.
Right, tire iron.
She wished she could remember that lesson the guy at the used car dealership had given her, but the details of How to Change a Tire 101 were a bit foggy.
But it couldn’t be too hard, right?
Of course not. I’m a modern, independent woman and I can change a fucking tire if I put my mind to it.
Setting her jaw in fortitude, she heaved the spare tire out of the trunk and set it on the grass next to the curb, then went back for the tools. She stared at the flat tire and pursed her lips. First things first, she needed to loosen those screws. Or were they called lugs? Lugs, she decided.
She crouched down and placed the tire iron on the first wheel lug. She turned. It didn’t budge. At all.
“Son of a bitch,” she mumbled under her breath.
Take two. This time she used brute force.
Zero movement.
Holy Mother of God. Who had tightened those things? The Incredible Hulk?
She was by no means a weak woman. She was a dancer. She had solid muscle definition in her arms. But for the life of her, she couldn’t loosen a single one of those wheel lugs.
“Hi, Mom!” Jason called, poking his head out the open window.
A hysterical laughed bubbled in her throat. “Hey, sweetie.”
“Can I help?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ve got it under control.”
Ha. Yeah right.
She wiggled her arm, shook it around, trying to get herself jacked up. A deep breath, and then she tried again.
“Lefty loosey, righty tighty,” she muttered as she attempted to loosen a lug with all the strength she possessed.
No movement. Not even a freaking millimeter. And now her arm hurt. It actually hurt. Frustration sliced into her and she nearly whipped the stupid tool into the speed limit sign three yards away. She reined in the impulse at the last second, let out a strangled breath and decided it was time to come to grips with her own pathetic inadequacy.
“Jason, can you please pass me my phone?” Her voice was calmer than a fucking blue ocean.
Her son’s little hand popped out of the window.
Clenching her teeth, Miranda stood up and brushed pebbles off her leggings then took the phone from her son’s outstretched hand. After one very long moment of reluctance, she dialed Seth’s number.
“You’re still a modern, independent woman,” she assured herself.
But sometimes even modern, independent women were forced to admit defeat and call a man for help.
Seth was chuckling to himself during the entire drive into San Diego. He knew Miranda was probably stewing up a storm over the fact that she’d been forced to call him. He’d heard the irritation in her voice when she’d tersely explained the situation and asked him for help. Hell, he was surprised the words “help me” actually existed in that stubborn woman’s vocabulary.
He couldn’t wait to see her, though. He’d been busy this week, spending a couple of days in Nevada training with the team, and then last night he’d gone to Carson’s rather than the club. He’d promised Miranda that he wouldn’t hover over her at work anymore. Besides, he knew that if he’d gone there last night, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from nailing her in that employee break room.