Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“Give me a sec,” I mumble.
“Take all the time you need.” She strokes her fingers over my back. “I couldn’t move if my life depended on it.” Her body shakes with laughter under me.
I kiss the side of her breast and shift my weight off her but keep my hand resting on her stomach.
“Let me clean up, and I’ll get started on the snow.”
“Mmm.” She stretches, eyes still closed. “I want to stay in bed with you all day.”
“Nothing I’d rather do more.” I press a kiss to her cheek, already regretting the need to move.
The low, incessant whine of a poorly maintained snowblower buzzes faintly from outside, drawing our attention to the window.
Margot props herself up on one elbow and cocks her head. “That must be Paul or my dad.”
I lean over and kiss her cheek again. “Let me go help them out. But first, can you check in with your dad about the plow? I’m going to call Remy and see if he can make it over here.”
“Why Remy?”
“He has a plow on his old Bronco. Or at least he used to. Hoping he still does.”
“Oh.” A soft, dreamy expression slides over her face. “You’re very resourceful.”
“I can be.” Fuck, I hate leaving this bed. Especially when she’s in it, hair wild, skin flushed, her legs tangled in the sheets. Nothing but pure temptation.
Maybe she senses my hesitation. She rolls to her side and slips out of bed, tugging her top into place as she moves toward her closet. I force myself to turn away and head down the hall, each step more reluctant than the last.
***
Fifteen minutes later, I step onto the back porch and the wind slaps me in the face, cutting through my leather jacket. Yup, I’d really rather be upstairs in bed with Margot.
Soft, weightless flakes pour from the sky in a heavy, steady fall, piling up fast.
Someone cleared off the porch and steps and shoveled a path to the garage, but it’s already covered with a fine dusting of snow. A push broom and shovel rest against the house, coated in a soft layer of snow. I take the shovel and carve a narrow path toward my truck—hat and gloves are in there somewhere. No warmer coat, though. Fucking forecast never mentioned this much snow getting dumped on us.
The gloves are old, but warm. I wiggle my hands into them and pull on the knit cap, covering my ears, then continue digging through the SUV.
Blanket, tarp, knife.
Glass cleaner, paper towels.
Another knife.
Empty gas can.
Compact tool kit. Tire repair kit and a portable air compressor.
Jumper cables. Tow straps.
Wire cutters. Zip ties.
Duct tape, Electrical tape.
Another knife.
Bolt cutters.
Ballpeen hammer.
A box cutter—why the fuck am I carrying so many cutting instruments?
Flashlight. Headlamp.
Absolutely nothing useful for snow removal.
“Motherfucker,” I grumble, slamming the tailgate shut with an unsatisfying thud.
“Morning!”
I turn.
Margot’s cousin Paul greets me with an amused smile. “Cold enough for ya?”
So engrossed in searching through all the shit stashed in my ride, I missed the sound of the snowblower cutting out and Paul creeping up on me.
Wrath’s right, my situational awareness needs improvement.
“You could say that.” My gaze sweeps the driveway. “I thought I heard a snowblower?”
Paul jerks his thumb toward the front of the house. “Died on the sidewalk.” His red face scrunches into a sheepish expression. “I think it’s out of gas? At least I hope that’s what it is.”
“I’ll run out to get it,” I offer. “Is it a two-stroke, or four?”
An embarrassed smile spreads over Paul’s face. “It’s newer, if that helps.”
Be nice. He’s Margot’s cousin. A mortician, not a mechanic. I couldn’t drain a body—he doesn’t know what kind of snowblower he has. It’s all good.
I nod. “Let me take a look.”
Paul leads me to the front, where the Cadillac of snowblowers sits tilted on a patch of snow-covered concrete. Stand-on, rubber track drive, probably a fifty-foot throw distance. Overkill for residential sidewalks. Figures the Cedarwoods would buy the most expensive snowblower and then forget to put gas in it.
At least Paul cleared a portion of the driveway and made it to the front steps before the thing died.
I crouch beside the beast of a machine and remove the gas cap, tilting the whole unit slightly to check the tank.
“Yup. Empty.”
Paul squints. “That’s bad, right? Did I wreck it?”
“Nah.” It’s definitely a four-stroke. “Just needs some gas.”
Relief softens his features. “We haven’t used it much. One of the guys usually plows the parking lot, then jumps out and shovels the walkways.”
“This’ll do the parking lot. It’ll just take some time.” I pat the frame and stand. “I’ll run out and get the gas.”
“I, uh, you don’t have to do that,” he protests.
“My truck’s ready to go.” I nod toward the slice of driveway he cleared. “Your vehicles are still boxed in.”
“Good point.” He hooks his thumb toward the right. “There’s a gas station a couple miles that way. Otherwise, you’ll have to go almost all the way back to the highway.”