Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I drive right up to the top of the farm, finding the best parking space. My gaze lingers on the surrounding trees as I pull into the space, trying to figure out the best place to start my search, and just as my foot lifts off the gas and shifts toward the brake, my tires hit a patch of black ice and I lose control.
Fear pounds through my veins as Pop’s truck slides toward the ditch in front of the parking spaces, and I slam my foot onto the brake as a raw scream tears from the back of my throat. “OH FUCK,” I panic, desperately trying to gain control, but it’s no use, there’s too much momentum.
The truck launches forward, the front end dropping heavily into the ditch and coming to a crunching stop as my heart thunders wildly in my chest. “Holy fucking shit,” I mutter, my eyes wide as I white knuckle the steering wheel.
I take a moment, barely able to believe that just happened, all too aware that if Pop were here he would be cursing me out right about now.
A sharp knock sounds at the window, and I whip my head around, finding a familiar face staring back at me. “Miss,” Billy McDonald from my high school calls out, his hands braced against the glass to see past the fog glued to the window. “Miss, are you alright?”
He tries the handle, and the door pops open just enough that I’ll be able to squeeze through. “Miss,” he says again, his voice filled with the kind of calmness that has me finally catching my breath. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
My brows furrow as I take him in, standing in knee-deep snow. “I, ummm . . . yeah. I think I’m okay,” I say, embarrassment gripping me in a chokehold.
“Can you get out?”
Cutting the engine, I grab my things and unbuckle my seatbelt before wriggling over to the edge. There’s a fallen tree in the bottom of the ditch keeping the door from opening any wider, and Billy heaves it back, giving me just a little more space.
He offers me his hand, and I gingerly take it as I drop out of the truck, my feet instantly sinking into the deep snow. “Thanks,” I say with an awkward smile as he points out the best place for me to brace my foot to help me up. There’s an older gentleman standing just at the top of the ditch, right where Pop’s truck was supposed to be parked. He reaches down and grips my arm to help pull me the rest of the way out of the ditch.
He’s also familiar, and I can’t help but wonder if this is Billy’s father, the original Old McDonald. “I, uhhh . . . I’m really sorry,” I say to him as Billy climbs out of the ditch, using the back of Pop’s truck for leverage. “I’m not the best driver, but I swear, if I knew I’d end up in a ditch, I would have picked a different space.”
The old man grins, his gaze shifting over the truck before looking at the road like some kind of investigator. “You should really have chains on your truck,” he says in an accusatory tone.
His son moves in beside me, offering me a polite smile before glaring at his father. “Knock it off, Pops. It’s not her fault. She hit black ice,” he says before shifting his gaze back to mine. “But he’s right. You really should have chains on your tires. You were lucky today, but if you were on the highway, it could have been fatal.”
My face scrunches. “I know, I’ve been meaning to do it, but I haven’t had a minute to figure it out. I only just got back into town.”
“Ahh, you’re . . . wait. Why does your face seem so familiar to me?”
“Blair Wilder,” I say, really starting to notice the chill in the air as the adrenaline begins to wear off. “We were in high school together. Pretty sure you sat behind me during History all through senior year.”
Recognition flashes in his bright blue eyes. “Ahhhh yeah. That’s right. You’re Nick’s girl.”
“Yeah, something like that,” I say, not willing to get into it as his father shuffles over, getting a good look at Pop’s truck in the ditch, probably trying to figure out where the hell to go from here. “What’s the diagnosis? Is the truck a lost cause?”
“Nah, nothing a good tow can’t handle,” the old man says, patting the back of the truck like he was spanking a woman’s ass. “We’ll get her back on her feet. Might not happen today though. Do you have someone you can call?”
Shit.
My mind goes straight to Nick, but there’s no way in hell I can call him for a ride, not after I dove behind the coffee house counter this morning. My ego is far too bruised to have to face that one today. I suppose I could call Oxley, but his number is still on that little slip of paper on my kitchen counter.