Chapter 2
Margo
A subtle crack tells me that I skimmed too close to the edge of the road and probably hit another mailbox.
Damn things. I think for the zillionth time as I slowly take the curve going up to Smiley Road.
I have no idea who Smiley was, but would it have killed him to make this road wider?
It’s the most difficult part of my job, slowly taking all the curves in this old monster—even as locals drive toward me like they’re being chased by a dozen clowns.
All I can hope is that my luck holds through the winter, because after what I’ve been through the past year it would really suck if I ended up dead in a ditch up here.
Exhaling, I swear I can see my breath. The heater in this old thing just doesn’t cut it and I’m frozen to the bone.
My grandfather keeps teasing me that I’ll get used to it and I just keep using my paychecks to buy long underwear.
Back home, I didn’t need anything more than a hoodie until after Christmas.
“Well, shit,” I murmur to myself, seeing the backend of a truck sticking up from the side of the road. A second later, I heavily exhale when I see a man pop into view, and I instantly recognize him.
Right after I had moved here, Granddad was giving me a tour around town, and we were stopped at a red light when a man too good looking for his own good stepped out of the bakery and took my breath away.
Doubly so at Granddad’s words. “I doubt you remember him, that’s Stryker Wells. He took over his father’s funeral home a few years back. For all he does with the motorcycle club, he’s a fair hand as an undertaker.”
That was a lot to process, but high praise coming from Granddad.
He’s buried five wives and a child at this point.
It was hard to reconcile the man straddling his bike with the tall, lanky teenager who kept me hidden and made me swear never to speak of what I saw and heard the day of my grandmother’s funeral.
For months afterward, I was terrified to go to sleep, certain the other men in, what I now know are called ‘cuts’, would come for me. Or worse, in my young mind, my dad.
I knew my parents would fight a lot, but it was when we got back from Grandma’s funeral that reality hit.
My mom had moved in with my friend’s dad—my friend and her mom moving across the country in the wake of the cheating scandal that made me a pariah for the rest of my school days.
When a judge asked me who I wanted to live with, I took a step closer to my dad; and that was that.
Now, my first instinct is to keep on driving.
This man is dangerous, and I don’t need any more of that in my life.
Then a shiver runs through my body again and I know I can’t leave anyone stranded out here in this weather. I ease this old vehicle to a stop and engage the parking brake just as he’s opening the passenger side door.
“Do you have chains?” he asks, scowling when I shrug.
“Give me a minute and I’ll check,” I respond in kind, already miserable that he’s letting all the outside into the moderately warm cab. “Get in if you want to warm up, but close that door.”
His eyes narrow at my command, and instead of listening to me, he hits the release on the seat to dig around in the back. Not ready to go outside yet, I pop my seatbelt and turn, getting up on my knees to dig around on my side.
“Maybe there’s one in the back,” I suggest, looking over my shoulder to find him staring in the general direction of my ass.
He’d have to have one hell of an imagination to picture it though.
Meeting him around the backside, I quickly come upon a tow rope and handing him one end, I take the other end before realizing that I have no idea where to attach it.
“Have you done this before?” he asks, sounding dubious.
“I have not,” I reply honestly, pleased he thought to ask instead of letting me bumble around.
“Let me show you then. If this snow keeps up, you’ll come across others who need help.”
His quiet, matter-of-fact tone of voice isn’t hostile and for a split second, I’m reminded of the kindness of the boy who saved me rather than the hot, growly, rough looking biker I’m faced with today.
“Thank you,” I whisper softly, handing him the end of the rope I had taken.
“You got to make sure they’re attached to the right recovery points.
The points be in different places on different vehicles, so take your time and do it right.
Otherwise, you’ll be driving off with someone’s bumper.
” He continues talking, but I’m too focused on his full lips and his blue eyes that are framed by lashes I would kill for.
Just as a light snow starts up, he indicates we should head to his vehicle, and I realize I missed most of his lesson.
I get down to his truck first and looking over my shoulder, I find him giving me the oddest look.
“What?”
“Is there something wrong with your legs?” he asks, looking like he’s trying to figure something out.
“No…”
“New boots?”
“Kind of, but I like them.” In my confusion at his questions, I lift my right foot suddenly needing to inspect the object in question.
“Why do you walk like that kid from The Christmas Story?”
That was absolutely the last thing I expected from this man and I start laughing so hard, the boot I had lifted up sets me off balance and even though he reaches out to steady me, I end up taking us both down.
“Are you okay?” I quickly ask, still lying half on top of him.
Seeing his eyes darken in what I assume is annoyance, I feel like I’m being drawn into a trap.
He nods and I realize he’s waiting for an explanation to his question, regardless of our position.
“I have three or four layers on. You try walking around like this. I swear, my inner thighs are so chafed, and it’s only been a couple of weeks of this shit storm. ”
“There’s lotion for that you know.” His voice has dropped to a low, deep pitch that sets butterflies swirling inside of me—especially when I imagine him applying the lotion on my upper thighs.
“Um, where’s your recovery thing?” I whisper as I push myself up to my knees, hoping he’ll think my burning red cheeks are because of the cold.
“Are the keys in your truck?” he asks, looking down at me after he’s secured the rope.
“Yep,” I answer.
“Mine are in the ignition, also. Go throw my truck in neutral and steer accordingly,” he instructs me, turning to head back to the plow.
There’s a moment of alarm in my brain when I wonder what the county regulations are regarding the public behind the wheel of the snowplow, but considering they hired me to clear the roads, they can’t be too picky.
Climbing into the passenger seat, I sigh contently at the warmth that surrounds me as I slide across to the driver’s side.
Turning it on, I quickly slide his seat forward so I can more easily reach the pedals and gear shift. A sudden smile breaks across my face at the thought of him needing to do the reverse in the plow; even at 5’8”, I doubt my head hits his shoulder.
A sudden jolt startles me, and remembering his words, I grab the wheel, anticipating the need to turn the tires.
His truck is back on the road within minutes, unfortunately, he’ll be leading the way up the hill.
“I almost forgot!” I exclaim after jumping out of his truck. “There’s a disclaimer form in the back I need you to sign. Give me a moment to dig it out.”
“A disclaimer?”
“Yeah, in case I need to help anyone, the county doesn’t want you saying I damaged your vehicle. I must have been told a dozen times, I need to get this form signed.”
“You didn’t actually do anything,” he reminds, cracking a grin.
“Well, since they don’t have a form for you doing all the work, can you please sign the one they do have?”
“You really need to have them fix the heater on this thing,” he tells me, standing to the side as I start digging around the junk in the back seat.
“They did, this is significantly better than it was last week,” I grumble back my response.
“Who did the work?”
“One of the old-timers from the VFW hall,” I say, cheering when I finally find the document I need. “He’s the mayor’s uncle or godfather. I’d tell you what he looks like, but most of those guys are bald with a beard.”
“Hang out there often, do ya?” he clicks his tongue, twirling his finger so I turn around. He places the paper against my back, and I feel the pressure when he signs it. “Why don’t you give me your number? You can come have a drink at the clubhouse sometime.”
Thankfully, he can’t see me rolling my eyes. “Even though you think I walk funny and don’t know my name?”
“I promise to keep you warm if you want to wear fewer layers, Go-Go.” He leans forward, pressing his body against mine as he puts the paper down on the seat in front of me.
“Fuck,” the word escapes on my breath and I can feel his body shake with amusement. Not only do I want to kick myself for childishly telling him my nickname so many years ago, but for not being impervious to the tall, dark, and hot-as-hell man he became.
“That’s definitely one way to keep you warm,” he teases me back.
On second thought, he’s probably not teasing me.