by Nicole Snow
The Romeo Arrangement
A Small Town Romance
Nicole Snow
Content copyright © Nicole Snow. All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America.
First published in July, 2020.
Disclaimer: The following book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance characters in this story may have to real people is only coincidental.
Please respect this author's hard work! No section of this book may be reproduced or copied without permission. Exception for brief quotations used in reviews or promotions. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thanks!
Cover Design – CoverLuv. Photo by Aldrin del Carmen.
Contents
About the Book
1. No Place to Crash (Grace)
2. No Dull Moment (Ridge)
3. No Fight Left (Grace)
4. No Easy Way Out (Ridge)
5. No Place Like Home (Grace)
6. No Change of Plans (Ridge)
7. No Surrender (Grace)
8. No Kept Secrets (Ridge)
9. No Rest for the Weary (Grace)
10. No Comfort (Ridge)
11. No Lucky Break (Grace)
12. No Buts (Ridge)
13. No Place to Hide (Grace)
14. No Grand Scheme (Ridge)
15. No Controlled Burn (Grace)
16. No Regrets (Ridge)
17. No Dreams Too Small (Grace)
18. No Cold Feet (Ridge)
19. No Waking Up (Grace)
20. No Calm Before Storms (Ridge)
21. No Trust Undone (Grace)
22. No Counting Chickens (Ridge)
23. No Faking It (Grace)
24. No Loose Ends (Ridge)
25. No Substitute (Grace)
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About Nicole Snow
More Books by Nicole
About the Book
He never bothered with hello.
The shrieking hot stranger had me dizzy the instant he said we're engaged.
Then he chased off the bully on our heels and dragged me back to his place for the night.
Pure insanity, right?
Wrong.
You don't let pride do the talking when you're homeless, on the run, and hauling around your sick father in a truck so old it must've been on Noah's Ark.
You definitely don't complain when Ridge Barnet takes charge.
(In)famous heartthrob. Stinking rich. Fed up owner of one angry rooster. Eyes set to permanent storm.
Of course, it doesn't end there.
My unexpected Romeo doubles down on this ridiculous “fake fiancée” rescue scheme.
One blazing kiss shatters worlds.
I'm swept up in a small-town fairy tale, wishing I hadn't lost my faith in wishes years ago.
He's saving my life. Hero and done. Nothing more.
Prince Charmings don't really marry pumpkin farmers from Wisconsin.
Give me strength.
Tell me his gaze doesn't scream obsession.
Save me from his oh-so-believable growls.
Help me believe our little arrangement never, ever ends in “I do.”
1
No Place to Crash (Grace)
“Careful, Gracie. This snow’s getting to be too much,” Dad growls, his eyes flicking across the road.
“Just a little longer. There has to be something up ahead.” I bite my lip, hoping to every star above that I’m right.
And it’s hard to hope when the stars are walled off behind the dense, angry clouds intent on burying us for the last hundred miles.
Oh, I’ve got all the fire under my ass a girl could ever need, but I’ll tell you one thing—I’d kill for a touch of real fire right now.
I feel a mad affection for every human being who ever shivered, scowled up at the sky, and said winter, bite me.
If only winter was the end of my worries.
The loud, ragged cough coming from my father in the passenger seat has me more nervous than the heavy snow drifting across the highway in blustery white sheets. It’s been snowing for hours.
This old truck, which had seen better days long before we left Wisconsin, has already been working overtime to pull the horse trailer up and down the rolling hills.
I’m keeping the speed low so I can try to avoid any mishaps. They’re all too likely with the sort of luck we’ve had on our journey thus far. We must’ve lost a good hour back in Minnesota, straining to change a flat.
Every time I glance at the old Ford’s dashboard, I’m expecting to see red.
A check engine light. Low oil pressure. Battery, alternator, brakes, another broken thingamajig.
Nothing would surprise me.
Still, despite being rusted up and dented, no thanks to my teenage driving skills years ago, the truck soldiers on. It’s almost like family, an old workhorse with the air of an immortal.
Only, the signs of aging are as impossible to ignore as its scabs of rust.
I know it’s a cheap metaphor for my father, who hacks up another coughing fit next to me.
Ask me how much I care about metaphors right now.
The once robust Nelson Sellers, who used to practically juggle hay bales, has shrunken the past few months. It’s not just his weight and musculature.
He slouches, even when sitting, something he always used to get after me for as a kid.
Dad’s demeanor has changed, his energy flatlining as his body limps along. His once coppery-brown hair is dull silver, and that fiery shine in his blue eyes that made him Dad is just...gone.
All depressing signs of the crushing weight we’ve shared lately.
But deep down, he’s still a Sellers. He won’t stop, and neither will I.
As long as this old Ford trudges on, so will we, all the way to Montana.
Same with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern—aka Rosie and Stern—the two horses riding in the trailer behind us in my rearview mirror. I’m not sure who loves them more, Dad or me.
They were his pride and joy once, and my best friends growing up. Practically the only friends I’d had when we’d left the city for the small farm north of Milwaukee to raise pumpkins.
Yes, pumpkins.
Feels like an eternity ago now. I’d finished high school while living on the farm, moved out, went to college for interior design, and dreamed of covering pretty places in prettier ideas.
Sadly, pretty anything hasn’t been in the cards for a long time.
I watched too many dreams get demolished on that farm. And then one day, when there was nothing left but smoldering ruins, we threw together our things and hit the road while we still could.
Someday, I’ll have my freaking slice of pretty.
Even if it feels like someday might as well be in the next century with this dark, deserted road and white dunes that could swallow a person whole crowding every mile.
“Gracie,” Dad says, breathing heavy. “It’s getting damn near impassable. You’re gonna have an accident. Pull over.”
“I can’t just stop here, Dad. There’s nowhere to park.” Not without potentially trapping the truck in an icy grave, and us with it. Believe me, I would if I could. Even in my boots, my toes are frozen nubs because the heater can’t keep up with the cold air invading the cab. “I can’t make out a shoulder, let alone how deep the ditches are.”
It’s the truth, but I don’t need to say it.
Dad’s eyes aren’t that bad.
He can see the snow-covered road and the huge flakes swirling around in the beams of our headlights before splattering against the windshield and being swept away by frantic wipers.
“There has to be a town somewhere. I checked the map a hundred miles back; I know I saw something,” he grumbles.
“Only you still read off of a paper atlas. Every phone has GPS that works most of the time, even when the service sucks.” I give him a teasing smile, but it fades just as fast when I see the look on his face.
I can tell how he’s trying to hold in another cough. It’s there behind the slight sideways quirk of his lips.
My heart hurts for him, and worry sours my stomach.
Congestive heart failure.
Probable.
That’s what the emergency room doc said last week. We didn’t get a chance to stick around for the follow-up with the cardiologist. Honestly, his ticker running out is the whole reason we’re in God Forsaken Nowhere, North Dakota.
As soon as we got the bad news, I said we had to go.
Leave.
Before it’s too late for him to find a little peace.
I’m still praying it isn’t. Nobody deserves to spend their last days on earth being hunted.
“Can’t believe how long this is taking,” he says, reaching up to wipe at his side of the windshield. “There has to be a pit stop up ahead, a gas station...something.”
“You’d think so,” I say, hoping to lighten the mood. “But I’m pretty sure there are more oil drills than people out in these parts.”
“Yeah, yeah. I heard all about the oil boom out here a few years back. Hell of an industry to be in,” he answers dryly, but with a hint of a smile. “Oil crews gotta eat, though. That means a town somewhere in this mess.”
“It’s coming,” I say. “And then we’ll stop for an overdue breather.”
“Not too long,” he reminds me, tapping a finger against his seat belt. “Just enough to take a leak and give Noelle a call. You said she left a few messages?”
“Right. I just haven’t had time to—”
Those words stop short in my mouth when I notice an odd purple flashing light in the swirling wintry darkness beyond the headlights.
My eyes narrow to a squint.
It’s almost like the purple light winks right back at me the harder I stare, holding the truck in what I hope is still our lane.
Weird.
I haven’t seen a patch of clear pavement or another vehicle for miles, and I’m almost wondering if I’m seeing things. Hallucinating out of desperation.
Nope.
Purple lights. Still there. Still pulsing.
I’m hoping it’s a business, not just some kind of derelict radio tower or utility site. My hands are cramped from white-knuckling the steering wheel for what’s felt like hours.
The tension in my shoulders and neck makes my muscles burn. It hurts to turn my head enough to glance at Dad again.
“You see that?” he asks. “That purple light?”
“Sure do. Glad it’s not just me.”
Coming closer now, I see the flashing light belongs to a sign. A tall one hoisted high in the sky. Between the snow and the distance, I can’t see anything below the sign, yet.
An old motel, maybe, but it could be something else, too.
“It looks like...a cat?” I whisper, trying to make sense of the round face outlined in bright royal purple with what looks like two pointy ears. “Definitely a cat. Meow.”
Now I can see the whiskers, the cartoonish grin, one eye winking as the sign flicks back and forth.
“Thank God. Hope it’s not just a snowmobile dealer,” Dad mutters.
I get the reference to a big brand in winter gear, but I’m pretty sure their logo doesn’t look anything like this. That winking face is actually kinda ridiculous, and by far the happiest thing I’ve seen all night.
“I think we’re in luck,” I say, smiling.
We’re close enough to read the name stenciled in curly lit letters under the cat’s face.
The Purple Bobcat, it reads. Good eats. Beer. Fun.
“Looks like a dive,” Dad says as the building comes into view. “Whatever, it’ll do.”
I nod, holding my breath for signs of vehicles in the lot. I don’t want to get my hopes up unless it’s still open.
The bar itself is a one-story wooden building painted bright purple. The owner must be a huge Prince fan or just hellbent on grabbing attention out here in the sticks.
Coming closer, the windows are lit up bright with beer signs. Looks like a few trucks parked in front of the building.
I exhale that breath I’ve been holding.
It may not be much, but right now a parking lot and a few walls feel like a luxury resort.
“It’s still open. Hope you’re hungry,” I say, easing my foot off the gas.
I refrain from tapping the brakes. It’s hard to determine just how much ice is packed under the snow.
The last thing I need is to send the trailer fishtailing across the lot and smack right into some good old boy’s favorite pickup.
Two little blue reflectors sticking out above the snow tell me where the driveway is. I slowly steer the truck between the reflectors and pull up along what I’m assuming is the edge of the parking area where there’s room to park without boxing in other vehicles. Plenty of room to make an easy turn when it’s time to leave, too.
“Don’t forget your hat,” I remind Dad as I shut off the truck and stow the keys in my purse. “Go on ahead of me; it’s freezing out here. I’ll check on Rosie and Stern, then meet you inside.”
Dad grumbles under his breath.
Something about being perfectly capable of looking after himself, but he puts on his wool-brimmed hat to humor me. I smile as he pulls the side flaps down over his ears, giving me a firm look that says happy? before opening his door.
I dig around on my lap and find my green-and-gold stocking cap, and then tug on my thick, fur-lined, made-in-Duluth Chopper mittens. The wind coming in through Dad’s passenger door is so bitter it rips my breath away.
When I open my door, the cold makes me shiver from head to toe.
“Winter, bite me,” I say, mostly to myself because I don’t think Jack Frost is listening. And if he is, well, the sweeping chill he flings in my face is worse than a middle finger.
Tucking my chin into the collar of my coat, I pull the fur-lined hood tighter around my face to help block the wind. I hate every single big fat snowflake stinging my cheeks and catching on my eyelashes as I waddle past the truck in my boots to the trailer.
Thankfully, it only takes a few minutes to check on the horses. They must be freezing, but they aren’t showing any signs of distress from the ride or bad weather. I feed them a couple carrots they wolf down like starving beasts before my own stomach growls.
If my lucky streak continues tonight, maybe this place will have something that isn’t oozing grease. A girl can hope. It’d be nice to keep my blood sugar levels in the happy range where I’m not hankering to chew my own arm off.
By the time I enter the bar, I’m ready to call the weather a winner.
I’m chilled to the bone. The dense snow packed on my boots makes my feet feel like they’re twenty pounds heavier. It’s a workout as I go stomping through the door.
The Purple Bobcat isn’t nearly so colorful inside.
Too bad.
It’s smaller than it looked on the outside, dark and dingy, but fairly clean. No ripped-up seats or rickety tables or cracked tile floors. No ugly crowd of guys missing teeth or gals with their boobs hanging out of their shirts over pool tables, either.
The wood-paneled walls are covered with metal signs advertising retro beers and off-color jokes. Dad’s found a table where he’s parked himself to look over a menu.
One of the only occupied tables tonight, it seems.
If this place has regulars, or newcomers, or even long-haul truckers looking for a nightcap and a side of bawdy conversation, the storm has kept them all away.
Who could blame the
m in this blizzard?
There’s an older man and woman in a booth near the frosty windows, picking at what looks like plates of gyros and fries. The table Dad chose is in the center of the room, surrounded by other empty ones.
At the bar, I count four guys on stools. A couple big blue-collar guys in stained coveralls—oil workers, maybe—plus two tall figures at the far end with several seats between them and the other men.
The maybe-oil-workers are quiet, focused on their tall beers, but the two on the opposite end are talking loudly.
Well, one of them is.
He’s tall. Built. Ginormous. Loud.
A tiger of a man stuffed in a red-and-black flannel shirt. I’m a little embarrassed when he whips around with a smile meant for the bartender.
Maybe he sensed the weirdo staring, and with said weirdo being me, looking like Jack Frost just kicked my butt up and down the playground, I...
I can’t hold it against him for wondering who the miserable, crazy lady is who just dragged herself in from the cold like a wet cat.
Am I still staring?
Maybe.
Because maybe I’m suddenly feeling a whole lot warmer taking in the handsome face perched on his wide shoulders, a jaw so defined it was cut by a mad sculptor, over six feet of defiant muscle that looks like it’s ready to burst right out of that flannel corral barely holding it.
Maybe he’s sporting just the right sandy-dark stubble to sear a woman’s skin, like this otherworldly, beautiful freak who just leaped out of a fashion ad.
Oh my God.
Um, and maybe he’s staring right back. Turning the most obscene blue-eyed lightning I’ve ever been struck with on my bewildered face.