The heavy, slippery slush keeps falling, and it's getting colder by the minute. Higher in the mountains, it’s always colder; my trailer is parked at the bottom of one mountainside, while Little Hope is nestled in the little groove on another, and my old boy decided to check out between the two of them, right at the coldest spot. I can’t even be mad. He’s been giving me so many warning signs I chose to completely ignore.
I’m wearing my warmest jacket, but it’s still not warm enough. My hands and nose first tingle from the cold, then begin to go numb. I pop the hood of my Jeep and get out. I can’t fix it, but I know where the battery’s located, and maybe I can hit it and add some kinetic energy that will allow it to miraculously start. I didn’t like physics in school, but I learned enough to have a little shred of hope that this would work.
Ten minutes later, I'm back in the car. Giving the battery a smack didn’t help—shocker—besides making me more aggravated with the situation. Damn it, a phone is the next purchase, even a cheap one with no internet. Anything will do as long as I can call somebody when in dire need of help. Which is now, obviously.
An hour later, I’m freezing, and not a single car has driven by. Yes, Little Hope is a pretty secluded town, but notthatsecluded. Where is everyone? I feel like a character in a post-apocalyptic flick expecting a lone zombie to wobble out from the woods anytime now.
My fingernails are turning blue. Great. That’s exactly what I need right now—to get frostbite and lose my fingers. I had big plans for these fingers of mine.
The rev of an engine startles me, and I jump in my seat. I’m so eager that I dash out of the car without hazarding a look first. Right before I start jumping and frantically waving my hands in the air in hopes the driver will stop, I recognize the truck. And the driver. Freakin’ awesome. He’d rather mow me down than help me out, and there’s no sense in humiliating myself even more. Deflated, I climb back inside my Jeep.
And, of course, he sails on by without even braking. Figures. I shiver yet again from the cold and blow puffs of barely warm breath onto my palms.
The car rev comes again a second later, and I get excited in hopes there’s another person out there to save this damsel in distress. No such luck. The truck is coming back. Just great, he wants to rub some salt into my raw wound.
Justin Attleborough’s brand-new, fancy-schmancy truck stops on my side of the road, facing me, and he slowly hauls his big body out.I bet it has heated seats; I gripe internally, shivering in ghostly pleasure at the thought of warming my frozen ass on one of those seats. He's not dressed for the weather, unlike I am, and I'm still an icicle. He’s wearing washed-out jeans and a brown flannel with the sleeves rolled up, a dark T-shirt peeking from the collar. A black beanie is pulled over his short, sandy hair. One might say it’s blond, but it’s not. It’s the color of warm summer sand that you’re just dying to feel run between your fingers to see if it’s as soft as it looks.
He does a quick stretch and strides toward my driver's side in his usual overconfident manner, as if he’s hung like a horse, and his balls of steel smack his knees with each powerful step. That could very well be the case, but regardless, it’s just too alpha for my liking.
Ri-i-ight.
I sit and look in front of me without acknowledging him, even as he’s knocking on the window.
“Open up,” he orders, and as if I were an idiot, I do just as I'm told. Only halfway down, though, some brainpower might still be left in my frozen skull. “Your junker finally gave up?” he prods with a sneer.
“My car is perfectly fine,” I argue, wiping at my nose self-consciously as I feel it dripping over the numbness. The tip smarts to the touch, tingling with cold.
“Sure, it is.” His smirk is sardonic. “So, what you are doin’ here?”
“Sightseeing,” I offer, looking to the side. Itisbeautiful, that much is true: great Maine mountains after a downpour ruling over dark, evergreen woods and a dirty, slippery road, a bird chirps happily somewhere.
Idiot. It’s fucking freezing out here.
“Cute,” he retorts, unsmiling. “How you gonna get out of here?’
“I’ll figure something out.” I dare a quick glance at him and regret it instantly. His bright blue eyes are trained on my face.
“Sure, you will.” He jerks his head. “Pop the hood.”
“Why?”
“Just fuckin’ open it.” This comes out as a growl—the tone of his I’m most familiar with.
He hates me, and I sort of hate him too (I think?), but for the past hour, there were no vehicles driving by, and the only other living soul I saw (more like heard) was that chirping bird high as a kite, so I swallow my pride and press the button to pop the hood.
ChapterTwo
JUSTIN
I’m fixing Mrs. Jenkins’ steering wheel in her old CR-V when Jake shows up to my garage. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, he throws and few ‘hellos’ to the guys working today and proceeds toward me, leaning against the car I’m working on.Damn it.That smile always means trouble. Always.
“How it’s goin’, bro?” His tone is too smug for my liking.
I keep my response clipped, seeing a carefully rehearsed follow-up in his eyes that I’d rather not hear. He begins tapping his foot on the floor like a ditz, and I just want him to spit out whatever he needs to and get the hell out of my garage. “It’s going.” He clearly expects me to ask about whatever shenanigans he caused this morning, but I couldn’t care less.
He just smiles complacently. “Well, if you must know, I had a fine morning.”
“What did you do, Jake?” Jake being in this good of a mood has only ever meant one thing.
