Chapter 2
[Saint]
This isn’t the first time I’ve had to hunker down for a winter nap in a vehicle. Hopefully, it won’t be a long one.
With no cell service, my phone is of no use to call for help.
I’ll need to tough it out until daylight and hope for a snowplow or another lost traveler on this vacant road.
A quick glance at my watch shows it’s after two a.m. Definitely late.
I think of Da again. December is our most hectic month.
The last-minute purchases. The backorders rushing in.
Christmas sales project our business needs for the upcoming year.
But for now, all I can concentrate on is the cold creeping into the car, as I’ve let a great deal of heat out by having the door open, intending to offer shelter to a stray dog.
“So much for trying to be on the nice list.”
I’d chuckle at the idea if I weren’t so grumpy. And growing colder by the minute.
With my arms tucked into my pits and the travel blanket I keep in the backseat over my legs, I huddle against the steering wheel, laying my forehead against the spent airbag. With my eyes closed, I dream of warm things.
Sunshine on the beach. Hot chocolate in a festive mug. Crackling logs in a blazing fireplace.
Imagining heated items isn’t helping, so my thoughts shift instead to thinking about a warm body beside me. The gentle curve of hips. The strength of feminine thighs. The softness of a pair of—
A sharp rapping from my left, like knuckles against glass, jolts me and I jerk my head upright.
My eyes rapidly blink due to the brightness of daylight and the glare of freshly fallen snow.
My shoulders ache from the initial reaction of gripping the steering wheel so tightly last night.
Twisting my neck, I wince at the pain from sleeping with my head against the leather-wrapped steering wheel.
I cup my nose, finding it tender as well.
Then I turn my head and glance out the driver’s side window, blinking once again to clear the fog in my brain.
Because a pair of the brightest blue feminine eyes I’ve ever seen stare back at me. The woman’s cheeks are rosy. Her lips lush and pink. Her nose wrinkles as her gaze scans my face.
“You okay?” she says, or at least I think that’s what she says as it’s difficult to hear her through the window. “Are you hurt?”
She motions with her mitten-covered hand for me to roll down my window, but I pop open the door instead.
With a giant step backward and both hands in the air, she watches me warily as I exit the low riding Martin.
My legs are cramped and cold, and my knees crack after hours in the hunched position.
Something snaps along my lower lumbar region.
And even lower, I’m sporting morning wood that rivals the post against my car because of the dream I’d been having.
One in which the beautiful woman in front of me could have been a star.
Then I glance down her body, clad in a long, puffy, dull-green coat that falls below her knees. Thick fur-trimmed boots are laced tight around her mid-calves. A thick scarf circles her throat. Her hair is covered by a cream-colored knit cap.
Fuck, she looks warm and toasty and—
“You can’t park your car here, mister,” she says, her voice soft with an East Coast accent, rolling park and car over her tongue as if the words don’t contain the letter R.
“I’m not—”
“I’m teasing,” she quickly interrupts, lowering her eyes from my face and glancing toward the post the Aston Martin embraces.
She steps around me and the hood of the car to assess the damage. Her lips twist side to side, like she’s calculating the cost of repairs. Dollars signs fill those bright eyes.
“Must have made Santa’s nice list to get a car like this.”
“Santa’s—” I choke. Does she know? I scrape away the thought as quickly as it comes.
“Yeah,” I mock. “I’ve been really good this year.”
Production is up. Damages down. Returns are at an all-time low. I’d say it’s been an excellent year, and I deserve to treat myself once in a while.
Call it a mid-life crisis car, if you wish.
Da would say I’m spoiling myself. Ma would say I’ve earned it. Nick would just be thankful he isn’t in the family business. My younger sister Kaye would simply roll her eyes and suggest I’m overcompensating for something.
“Alright, let’s get you hooked up.” She nods over the roof of the car, and I spin to see a tow truck I hadn’t noticed parked behind me.
She bends, looking at something beneath the front bumper of my green baby.
“Dammit, these fancy cars are so complicated,” she grunts, lowering even further, lifting her backside in the air.
I don’t have the slightest hint how she’s shaped beneath the bulk of her coat, and her figure should be the last thing on my mind, especially when she straightens, catching me squinting like I can see through the layers of her outerwear.
She gives me a stern smirk, mumbling under her breath. “I do not have time for this today.”
“Towing my cah?” I counter, poorly mimicking her accent, before instantly regretting it. My intention is not to offend her. The accent is actually cute coming from her.
Her face is stoic, not giving away anything other than irritation. I’ve heard that before.
Without another comment directed at me, she continues muttering to herself.
“This is what happens when you offer to give Neve a day off. A snowstorm hits. And suddenly I have twenty extra things to do today other than what I’m supposed to be doing.”
My shoulders sag as she grumbles to herself, hating that I’m suddenly one of the inconveniences derailing her day.
I watch as she easily climbs into the tow truck and pulls the larger vehicle around to the front of my car.
The alarming beep of the truck reversing has me scrambling toward the hood of my baby girl, watching with bated breath as the tow hook swings over the precious emblem signifying the prestige of this vehicle.
With a hardy shove of the driver’s door, she hops out of the truck, still muttering to herself as she walks toward the rear and assesses her position. Pulling at a lever, the hook lowers with a sudden rush before she yanks the lever forward again, bringing the heavy curved metal to an abrupt halt.
I watch in horror, certain the giant tow hook will crash onto the smooth hood, adding more damage to my green girl.
“Easy,” I snap, glaring at this woman with my hands jammed into my jacket pockets. I try not to wear red but ’tis the season and as I was headed home, well . . .
Her gaze roams my stature from top to boot tip before she disregards me and returns to the lever, reaching for the tow hook with her other hand, which is just beyond her grasp.
“Here,” I scramble forward, catching the hook and angling the curved metal piece away from the hood as she returns to lowering it.
“Thanks,” she mumbles. “I’m out of practice.”
Out of practice at what? Towing cars? This does not make me feel better. I’m all for equity and equality, but if this woman doesn’t know how to tow a vehicle, maybe . . .
“Is there another tow service in town?”
The descending hook comes to another abrupt stop as she slams the lever forward once more. She straightens her body, shoulders tight, head held high.
“Rusty’s is the only place around here.”
“Rusty’s,” I repeat, instantly anxious because of the name.
“Yes. Rusty’s Wrecks, proudly serving Hideaway Harbor for sixty years.” Her tone turns tight as those blue eyes blaze like large outdoor bulbs decorating homes this time of year. She speaks like a canned voiceover in a commercial.
Rusty’s Wrecks. The name does not ease my concerns.
“You want me to tow your car or what?” she challenges, hip possibly jutted to the side. Hard to tell beneath the thick layer of her coat, but her mitten-covered hand fists near her waist.
“Yeah. Okay.” I swipe off my own knit cap and scratch at the back of my neck as I spare a glance at the damage to the Martin.
Her breath hitches, drawing my gaze back to her.
“What?” I snap, worried she sees something else wrong with the car, or worse, she’s done additional damage.
Instead, her eyes fix on my face. Or maybe it’s my hair. The silvery-white combination. I can’t exactly say, and I don’t bother to ask as she drops her eyes and grabs the tow hook from my hand.
She squats, removes a mitten from one hand with her teeth, then uses the free hand to tug off the other one, shoving both into her pockets before she struggles and fumbles with the giant hook, muttering once again to herself.
“I can’t find . . . Oh wait . . . got it . . .” She exhales heavily as her face scrunches, causing her nose to wrinkle and freckles to pop despite her rosy cheeks. “Nope . . . Okay . . . maybe to the left . . .” She sighs. “That’s it.”
“That’s what she said,” I mutter, unable to stop myself.
With the hook attached, she slowly stands, swiping her hands together. For the first time, I notice how delicate her fingers are. The digits are long and thin but marred by black grease and pale from the cold.
“Actually, unfortunately, most of the time that is what he’d say.” With her hands on her hips, she takes a second glance at my now-hooked car, and it takes me a second to realize what she’s just implied.
Does she mean some knob has had trouble finding the right spot on her?
I choke at the boldness, and she spins toward the tow truck. “I can give you a ride but keep your hands and your dirty thoughts to yourself.”
“I don’t have dirty thoughts.” I chuckle. Following her, my booted feet crunch over the thick snow. My toes are cold; my fingertips too, but I’ve experienced frostbite before, and this isn’t anything like the prickling sensation. It takes a lot to stiffen my body parts.
Like a smart mouth and blue eyes.
Good thing she can’t read minds, because mine keeps me indefinitely on the naughty list.