Chapter 3
{Lumi]
An overnight snowstorm was the last thing I needed. Mondays are always the worst.
In an effort to help my younger sister Neve, I’d told her she could take today off. The shop is always closed on Mondays anyway, but Neve is typically on call or tinkering. She needed time out of the office, though, and I’d told her I’d woman the phones. What could possibly go wrong?
As I’d mentioned to the stranger now seated beside me in Dad’s old truck, Rusty’s Wrecks has proudly served this area for sixty years.
The locals use us for their day-to-day vehicle needs, but our busiest season is typically summertime, when tourists arrive for the beach and the harbor.
Oil changes. Flat tires. Dead batteries.
Car wrecks are mostly fender benders since the speed limit through town is snail-paced.
Crowds only accumulate during the summer season.
Well, and fall, for the leaf peepers. And winter has its charm as well.
Hell, all year through, the charm of Hideaway Harbor packs in the extra visitors.
Our little corner of Maine is an alcove of sorts with lush mountains in a horseshoe shape facing the giant bay, which is a slice of the Atlantic Ocean.
Our town features a typical East Coast flair with a quaint downtown area, residential niches up the hills, and the harbor, which is a focal point.
We have a rich Nordic history, but we’re an eclectic mix of locals now.
And we attract a plethora of visitors, anywhere from families to party groups to celebrities. Or singles, like this guy.
Clearing my throat, I state, “If you’re here for the Bachelor Auction, you’re a few days late.”
Hidden Italy, an Italian deli and delicacy shop owned by the Cafiero family, kicked off the month of December with the brainstorm to auction off the single brothers who share responsibility for the place. If you ask me, it was a ploy for one particular brother to get a girl he had his sights on.
“The bachelor what?” Mister Tall, Silver, and Handsome chokes in the passenger seat.
Oh, yeah, I didn’t miss how good looking he is, with that silver hair slicked back from his knit cap and the right mix of snow and tinsel on his jawline.
He looks like a solid man, but it’s hard to tell with the waist-length puffer jacket he’s wearing.
But his legs are thick in a pair of khaki-colored jeans.
“You know . . . an auction. For the single women in town.” Personally, I had not attended the shindig as most of the men were younger than me. “Unless you aren’t a bachelor.”
Way to sound like you’re probing for answers, Lumi.
However, I’m not interested in what out-of-towners do in this town. Been there, done that long ago, and learned my lesson. I also have no time in my life for short-term dalliances.
We have a name for people not from here. Flatlanders, pronounced flatlandahs, are typically not from Maine. We especially toss the title on people from Massachusetts. This guy doesn’t look like he’s from anywhere near the East Coast.
Anyway.
Between Rusty’s Wrecks and my job with the postal service, plus being a single mom, I hardly have a spare minute, which is why a snowstorm, resulting in a car towing, has set off my day.
My passenger doesn’t answer about his relationship status, and it’s better that I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I’m not interested in some guy who looks like that Santa-actor from the 2024 holiday campaign for Target. I’d never admit how hot I found the man in those commercials.
My sisters would never let me hear the end of it if I owned that fact out loud.
“Sounds . . . interesting,” he finally states.
I hum, side-eyeing him as he stares out the window at the harbor on our right. The mountain to our left is how our town of Hideaway Harbor got its name. Your typical young and in love runaway couple, fleeing families that were enemies, and who disapproved of their union, thus hiding away here.
“Maybe Santa’s Speed Dating Event?” I chime next, still unreasonably curious about what brings him to our small town.
Love at First Sip, my personal favorite coffee shop in town, hosted the speed dating event the other night as well. As another love-matching event, I graciously skipped. Eileen Burrows, owner of the coffee shop, and the unofficial and self-appointed town matchmaker, designed the night.
“Santa’s what?” The stranger barks, startling me with the strength of his voice.
“Speed dating,” I clarify, sparing him another glance. “You know, like a round robin of dates, each only so long, to get to know someone.” With my right hand on the large steering wheel, I curl my forefinger and middle one to make air quotes. As if you can know someone in minutes.
Then again, I side-eye my passenger, taking in his leather boots, the fancy driving gloves laying on his lap, and his winter jacket which costs more than my monthly utility bill. He drove a car that could have covered Danny’s college tuition, for heaven’s sake. All four years of it.
This guy not only screams out-of-towner, he shouts pompous and rich and out of my league.
No matter. I don’t want a league.
“Eileen suggested that Santa found his match that way.” I smile.
“He most certainly did not,” the man scoffs, turning his head and scowling with a glare that attempts anger but there’s something too cute about the expression on his face.
I’d be frightened if he didn’t appear soft in some manner. Not soft-soft, just kind perhaps. Friendly, maybe. Oh, what did I know? I’d misjudged a flatlander once before and look where it landed me.
Permanently grounded in this town.
Then again, I couldn’t fully fault that guy. I’d been the other half of the situation, and the result was Danny. My son.
“You haven’t heard the great Christmas fairy tale. How Santa found his wife in thirty seconds or less.” The corner of my lips slowly curl, and the man beside me chuffs.
“You’re pulling my leg,” he snorts.
“Better than pulling other parts,” I quip.
“That’s not what he says,” he mutters.
I bark out a laugh before catching him watching me. Without much sleep last night, I’m a bit delirious this morning. The wind howling and the house rattling always keep me up, especially now that I’m all alone in that creaking old house.
“Guess you must have been here hoping to catch the Viking queen’s fundraiser.” Our resident Viking romance novelist, Jocelyn Collins, hosted the fundraiser for the local library.
A second bachelor auction happened, and I couldn’t have afforded to bid on a single guy, let alone want one of the men offering himself up for who knows what. I’m certain it wasn’t about sex, just a charity event for the local library, but still . . . I didn’t want to pay for a pity date.
To an outsider, two bachelor auctions and a speed dating event might make Hideaway Harbor sound like matchmaking is our number one attraction outside of the harbor.
The area is steeped in romantic history, but I’ve never been lucky at love.
It isn’t for a lack of trying so much as from a major failed attempt. Then life got in the way.
My passenger is already shaking his head in response to the second auction.
His mouth lifts in a lazy curve, surrounded by that delicious silvery mix along his jaw and cheeks, dismissing my ridiculousness.
His eyes are dark as coal with a hint of innocent mischief in them.
At the corners of his eyes are laugh lines, or maybe smile stitches, like he’s often practiced the facial motion.
He looks a little bit like a Viking, albeit one with a trim beard and shorter hair than the unruly characters.
Still, there is something Nordic about him, like a sexy version of Santa Claus.
And now I’ve really lost my mind.
“Anyway,” I groan, placing both my hands at the top of the steering wheel as we slowly roll through Hideaway Harbor, along the actual harbor, and head toward the lighthouse on the other side of town.
Rusty’s Wrecks is located just outside of town proper near the old beacon.
I typically walk to work because you can get anywhere important in Hideaway Harbor within thirty minutes max on foot.
Even in the cold, I enjoy the crisp, fresh air to wake me up in the morning or clear my head in the evening, but today I drove to the garage to pick up the tow truck.
I’d gotten the call from Neve after she got a Good Samaritan call from a passerby about the accident.
“How did your accident happen?” Perhaps other than the obvious snowstorm.
“Fucking Saint Bernard in the road.”
“Skippy?” I shriek, turning my attention to the near-Viking.
The truck swerves as well, and he reaches for the dashboard, crying out, “Eyes on the road.”
Sharply straightening the tow and giving a quick glance through the rearview mirror at his fancy car hitched to the hook, I then spare him another anxious peek.
“Who is Skippy?” he asks.
“The Saint Bernard.” The town dog is claimed by many but owned by none. He once belonged to the lighthouse keeper but when the old guy fell ill and passed away, Skippy was adopted by all. His home is anywhere he wants it to be, but mainly he roams the business district of Hideaway Harbor.
“What kind of name is Skippy?” the silver Viking asks.
“His name. He plops down wherever he wants to, and people just skip over him. Skippy,” I repeat the beloved dog’s name.
“Well, Skippy decided the middle of the highway right outside your town’s entrance was a good place to squat a bit last night.”
My brows crease. That doesn’t sound like something Skippy would do.
“Are you sure it wasn’t a moose in the road?
Maybe Santa’s reindeer?” I lower my voice while mentioning the mythical creatures.
Although caribou do exist, they do not live in Maine.
However, when Danny was young, we called the first sighting of an antlered buck a reindeer spotting, which meant Santa was busy working toward Christmas.
The thought of my now-adult son gives me pause until Mister Sportscar speaks.
“It was most definitely not a reindeer. Nor a moose. It was a dog.” He motions with his hands. “Yay big. This wide.” He spreads his arms to emphasize Skippy’s size. “Sad eyes.”
“Skippy isn’t sad,” I defend the sweet mutt’s disposition. However, I’d be sad if my owner died, and I was left to the town.
Then again, in many ways that’s exactly what happened to me. Not that my dad was my person, but he did own Rusty’s Wrecks, and I’d inherited the place, along with my sisters, keeping me doubly grounded to this town.
With a heavy sigh, I snap on my blinker and nod. “Here we are.”
Home not-so-sweet home.
Pulling into the lot, I take in the three garage-bay doors, along with the saltwater-weathered sign and ocean-air-stained windows.
My grandfather took pride in this place.
Dad, too, for a while. But as the name implies, the auto repair shop is a bit of a wreck itself, thanks to previous poor management and lack of business.
Most days, I don’t know how we’ll keep the place running for another year, let alone another month.
I don’t have to hear Mr. Fancy Car, Viking imitator, Santa wannabe, to know he’s internally groaning at the sight of the shop. My only hope is that Neve can fix his car quickly and send him on his way.
“So, tomorrow my sister will be in, and she can have a look at—”
“Tomorrow?” he interjects before I’ve punctuated my sentence.
“Tomorrow,” I repeat, setting the tow in Park in front of one closed garage door.
“What about you?” He sniffs, shifting his body to face mine.
“What about me?” I turn my head toward him, tilting it in question.
“Can’t you fix it?”
“Do I look like a mechanic?” The question is unfair.
I did drive the tow truck to pick him up, and it isn’t really his fault I’m in a piss-poor mood.
I’m late for work, and while every other business is understanding about the weather and able to slow down to accommodate, the post office is still open.
Wind, rain, sleet . . . or snow.
“My sister Neve is the mechanical one, and she’s off today.” My responsibility toward Rusty’s is to check the books once a week and, occasionally, drive a tow truck.
His forehead furrows, and he glances toward the closed garage doors plus the front door with a CLOSED sign hanging against the glass.
Neve put potted Christmas tree toppers on either side of the door to give the place a festive appearance, but Rusty’s Wrecks still looks sad.
Like a Saint Bernard without a home.
And the four daughters who inherited this garage.
“Do you need me to drop you somewhere?” I ask, despite being disgruntled that I’m already late for work.
A small pinch of concern for the guy settles in my chest along with a weak attempt at displaying Hideaway Harbor hospitality.
He looks tired and he is starting to show evidence of the airbag bursting in his face.
Purple crescents mar the underside of his eyes.
“I’m not certain anywhere has vacancies, but The Drift Inn is down the street, or The Haven is up the hill a bit.”
He looks a little lost for a moment, staring through the windshield at the repair shop for another second before saying, “Yeah. The Drift Inn is fine. I just need to grab my bag from my trunk.”
However, he doesn’t immediately move other than pulling his phone from his coat pocket and jabbing at the screen.
“We get spotty reception here on a good day,” I tell him. “Probably worse today because of the storm last night.”
He tips back his head and exhales toward the ceiling. Frustration expels in the heavy breath and misty cold puff of air coming from his mouth.
I get it, sexy stranger.
I’m not thrilled I still live here either.