Rachel
Yesenia’s handwritten directions are overly detailed and under informative.
Take a right by the split tree that looks like a hare?
In this weather I can’t tell if I’m looking at a tree or an embankment.
Snow covers the hood of my car, and no amount of heat will completely thaw my windshield.
I’m convinced I made a wrong turn but then I see the mailbox with Barlowe painted in bright red letters.
I’ve made it.
“Oh, he’s eccentric.”
There is no discernable driveway, just a blanket of even snow. There’s a gap in the tree line that should ostensibly be the path to take. My car’s engine whines as I commit to the gap.
Snow flies past my windows on both sides.
I bounce in my seat as the car jolts forward.
Miraculously the tires catch traction, and I sail up the mountain.
A cabin comes into view, the windows glowing a warm yellow in comparison to the bright white of the snow collecting on the roof and window frames.
There’s an old truck sitting in the driveway, and my goal is to park beside it. But my car doesn’t stop when I press the brakes. It keeps sliding, the brake pedal doing nothing.
“Shit. Shit. Shit!” I scream as my car crashes into the porch. I slam forward, the seatbelt cutting into my chest and stomach as it stops me from hitting the steering wheel.
As the engine sputters before dying I can only think that there is no way this billionaire will ever invest in my company. Not when he sees the state of his porch. The steps are ruined, and I think my fossil of a car has done more damage than a demolition crew to the structure.
The basket is fine, it was already on the passenger floorboard, so it had nowhere to go. I snatch it out of the car. It’s no longer a ‘please invest in my business basket’ it’s an apology basket now. I make it to the wreckage of the porch when I hear the pop.
“That fucking piece of shit,” I mutter dropping the basket on the ground. Walking back to my car I can’t believe my own eyes. The car looks fine. Maybe a dent here or there and the hood is crumpled, but what I can’t believe is that the airbag deployed. It’s totaled.
“Fuck!” I scream.
I just put all my money into this car. I have no savings and no car. My silver rust bucket goes blurry as I start crying in a stranger’s driveway.
“Do I smell cinnamon?” a deep voice rumbles behind me.
Spinning on my heel I find the hottest man alive frowning at the wreckage of his porch.
He’s tall with broad shoulders his fleece lined denim jacket can’t hide and thick thighs that his pants grip lovingly.
His hair is dark, curly, and wild, dancing in the wind and dusted with snow.
Brown eyes cut me as his thick eyebrows lower and his frown turns into a glare.
“What the fuck?”