The Romeo Arrangement: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

“You’re drunk, Ridge. Handing you a combat knife while you’re intoxicated hardly seems like it’d help de-escalate the situation.”

  “De-escalate,” I grunt. “Is that what we’re here to do? I’m not the asshole hunting those folks.”

  “You shouldn’t be involved,” Tobin says, his eyes pleading behind his owlish spectacles, the loyal wingman—or babysitter—until the end. “If we can guide them to the motel in town, however, I’ll do the driving.”

  I toss him a look that says it’s already too late not to get involved in this, and hold out my hand. “Tobin. Knife now.”

  With a guttural sigh, he passes me the dagger.

  “For the love of God, don’t do anything rash. We don’t have the kind of legal support here we did in California.”

  “I know,” I say quietly, then turn and stalk toward the front, giving Grady a look along the way that says I’ve got this.

  I also know there’s nothing in the world that’s going to stop me from running off the twit with the devil ink who doesn’t know when to quit.

  Pushing open the door, I find him waiting, just a few feet outside.

  “Yo! You really are dumb as a rock, aren’t you?” I’ve stopped next to his SUV, waiting for him to look at me.

  When I finally catch his eyes, I sink the knife down in the front tire on the driver’s side.

  “Hey!” he shouts, charging toward me.

  The fact that his ride’s still running means there’s a good chance it’s unlocked.

  Yep. I open the truck’s door and hit the lock button, then slam the door shut, making sure to ram the knife in the back tire before he arrives. A satisfying rush of air hisses out.

  “What the fuck!” he roars, diving for me across the last few paces.

  It’s hilarious how easy it is to smack him in the throat with my forearm and catch him behind the ankles with one good kick.

  As he goes down, I pull the knife out of the tire, then dash around the vehicle and blow two more tires on the other side.

  He’s up and coming at me again, shouting a blue streak.

  Twisting so his blow hits my shoulder, I get a good hold of his neck, digging in my fingers.

  He fights it by tightening his muscles.

  No dice.

  I’m already bored with this, so I dig my fingertips in deep and then pivot the tip of the knife against the other side of his neck. He freezes up a second later, realizing his predicament.

  “Now, slow poke, be a friend and show me where the tracking device is on that vehicle.” My eyes flick to the horse trailer belonging to the folks inside.

  He starts to blabber, no doubt winding up his lies. But between the nerve torture and pushing the tip of the knife harder against his skin, he goes quiet.

  “Let’s go.” Snarling, I shove him at the old Ford and the horse trailer.

  He tries to resist, but my adrenaline makes me a little crazy, giving me a high like I haven’t had in a long time.

  It isn’t even a question.

  I win.

  A few hurried minutes later, I count no less than three tracking devices in the snow by my feet. He’s shivering from digging through the caked snow to remove them from the vehicle. Poor bastard should’ve remembered gloves.

  “Hurry up already, and that better be all of them,” I tell him. “If I find one more you missed, you’re dead.”

  He sputters but has just enough sense to bite his tongue.

  I get it, really.

  Dickless hates losing. Most people do. Particularly when they’re used to throwing their weight around against targets who can’t fight back.

  I think his face is redder from hot anger than it is from the blistering cold.

  “You...you wouldn’t dare,” he chokes out.

  “Try me, my man. I don’t make threats I can’t carry out,” I say, pushing my face close to those ugly-ass tattoos. Whoever did him up also did a hack job.

  He curses, flinching away and climbing up the side of the horse trailer. It’s like watching a bloated chimpanzee trying to struggle up a brick wall. Finally, he pushes himself up high enough and pulls off a fourth tracking device from the roof of the trailer.

  As it falls into the snow near my feet, I ask, “Where’s your phone?”

  Again, he plays mum, tongue caught in the total humiliation he deserves.

  “I want it,” I say. “Either hand it over, or I take it the hard way again.”

  His eyes narrow and I laugh.

  If I weren’t retired, I’d reconsider the casting invites that come in sometimes for suspense flicks. This shit is fun.

  I spin around, giving him a side kick that I’d mastered as a teenager and still practice in my basement gym. A huge bout of satisfaction hits as it strikes the side of his head.

  Damn, I’ve needed this.

  Not the whole hurting someone, but the tension release.

  Turns out, this whole off-the-grid retirement thing has been boring as hell. Working out just isn’t the same, not as satisfying.

  Also, I think this counts as community service. No one gets a name like Jackknife without being a royal asshole and hurting people. Can’t say I mind avenging a few of his victims, whoever they are.

  I dig two cell phones out of his pockets, and knowing they probably have plenty of tracking too, I shove them in my back pocket, along with his knife. I’ll destroy it all later.

  Right now, I need to get that woman and her dad out of here.

  This goon can’t go anywhere with his keys locked up and four flats, but that’s also a problem. He’s stuck here. They can’t be.

  I pick up the four trackers as I walk back to the door of the bar, leaving Dickless raging in the snow.

  Once inside, I tell Tobin, “Start our truck. The old man’s riding with you. I’ll ride with the girl and give her directions.”

  “Ridge—”

  “Start our truck.” I’ll let him lay into me with his overly polite concerns after we’re home.

  For now, I cross the room and drop the four black trackers on the table. “Found these on your truck and trailer.”

  “Son of a bitch,” the old man says, his eyes bugging out as he coughs again.

  “Hope you two don’t mind a change of plans. Our friend outside will be stuck here for a while, and I don’t think the Crow Motel’s safe with him hanging around town. You’re coming home with me,” I say. “I have a barn for your horses and a guesthouse.”

  The woman looks at her father, who’s still coughing, then at me with such worry and trepidation in her big blue eyes that my heart actually aches for her.

  That hasn’t happened in forever, but if anyone deserves some compassion, it’s her tonight. I’d say she’s had a tough row to hoe lately.

  I brush the snow off my shoulders and arms while she pats her dad on his back. They’ll need a minute to think it over, so I head for the bar.

  “Grady, you should close up a little early tonight. The snow’s coming down mighty thick out there now. Call Sheriff Wallace, tell him there’s a moron outside with four flats and he locked his keys in his car.”

  “You’re sure that’s his only problem?” he rumbles in a low tone, leaning in, his eyes dark.

  “Yeah. I helped set him straight with everything else.”

  Satisfied, Grady nods and walks over to the oilmen, politely closing out their tabs.

  Tobin lingers by the window, glaring into the night, the key fob to our truck dangling in his hand.

  I round the table to the old man and stoop down next to him.

  “My name’s Ridge. What’s yours?”

  “Nelson,” he says with a gasp. “Nelson Sellers.”

  “You look like a smart man, Nelson. A good man, but you also look like you need some rest and a warm bed for the night.” I lay a hand on his shoulder. “I give you my word, you and your daughter are safe with me.”

  He studies me, evaluating whether or not I’m one more piece of bad luck.

  I don’t know h
im from Adam. To him, I could be a serial killer, a brazen drunk, or just plain fucked in the head. Maybe I’ll admit to the last one since I charged into their business, just as long as their dealings with Pete are done for now.

  I glance at the trackers I’d laid on the table. “A hell of a lot safer than you would be out on the road. Trust me,” I say.

  He looks at the trackers, his daughter, and then up at me, and nods slowly.

  “I believe you’re right,” he says, the only sane response even if he doesn’t like it.

  “I know I am.” I jerk my head at Tobin. “That’s my friend over there, Tobin. He’ll give you a ride to my ranch. It’s about ten miles from here. I’ll drive your truck and help your daughter get your horses settled in while Tobin gets you set up in the guesthouse, all right?”

  Nelson looks at his daughter again.

  She gives him a slight smile, shrugs, and nods.

  I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath until her meager smile turns my way.

  “Great. Grab your coats and I’ll be right back.” I scoop up the GPS trackers and walk over to the bar.

  “Got a hammer back there?” I ask Grady.

  He frowns, folding his powerful arms, and waves toward a door behind the bar. “In the back. Don’t leave a mess for me, Ridge.”

  I round the bar.

  “No big. I just need to borrow it. I’ll pick up every piece.”

  I enter the little service room next to the kitchen, find the hammer hanging on a wall, and find a clear spot on his metal workbench. Nothing of Pete’s is military grade, and it’s easy to bust apart. The phones snap, crackle, and pop with a few good swings after I’ve removed their batteries.

  The asshole outside probably has them connected to his SUV and God only knows what else, but hopefully this helps slow down his mischief. Just for good measure, I give his precious blade a good whack. It tears off its handle and goes skittering across the surface.

  Before leaving, I toss the shattered remnants of the trackers, phones, and the knife in the trash, then grab my coat off the back of the bar stool.

  “What should I do about the prick outside?” Grady asks. “Don’t like the thought of him hanging around after I close up.”

  “Leave him. You called the sheriff, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but they said it’ll be a couple hours before they can get out here for a lockout. And all the towing places are closed or filled to capacity in this shit.”

  That bums me out.

  I was hoping they’d come haul him in and commandeer his vehicle, too. I’m sure the devious bastard has a record.

  “My guess is he’s stolen more than one car in his time. If the cops are dragging that much, he’ll be out of your hair soon enough. He’ll figure out a way to get the doors unlocked and hit the road with his flats. Especially once he hears the law’s coming.”

  “Works for me. One less problem to deal with.” Grady shrugs, but gives me a small grin. “Thanks for a fun night, Ridge.”

  I chuckle and walk toward the table.

  Whatever else happened, at least it was interesting. My stomach hiccups as my gaze locks on the woman’s.

  Damn.

  Now I have to face the equally unpredictable consequences of my fun night. Everything old Tobin will give me a talking to about.

  Mom always said sometimes I got too deep in my roles back when I was every producer’s golden boy.

  Sometimes, I let my heart do the thinking instead of my head.

  Go ahead and guess how that ends.

  Not fucking well.

  3

  No Fight Left (Grace)

  I still can’t figure out if Dad and I are being rescued or kidnapped—or which would be worse.

  There’s something else I can’t shake, too.

  This guy in his red-and-black plaid shirt, who calls himself Ridge, looks oddly familiar.

  It’s one of those freaky I-swear-I’ve-seen-someone-who-looks-just-like-you spidey sense moments.

  But in my state of mind right now, I might just be comparing him to Paul Bunyan because he’s got the flannel lumbersexual thing down in spades.

  Rather than a blue ox, this guy has Tobin, his straight-out-of-corporate-looking sidekick. Tobin seems younger than Dad by a good ten years or so, maybe early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, oval glasses, and frown lines that have only deepened since the entire scene at the table started.

  I can’t figure that out, but honestly, it’s the least of my worries.

  Ridge, with crystal-clear blue eyes and dark brown hair, has a perma-grin plastered on his face that’s barely faded since he’d first stormed up to our table and laid down the law.

  I still can’t believe he frog-marched Clay Grendal’s goon out into the snow like a bag of trash.

  I still can’t believe he stepped in, offering to help a couple total strangers.

  I definitely still can’t believe he implied we’re dating—a heartbeat from being flipping engaged.

  The size of my disbelief could have its own zip code.

  Granted, the Purple Bobcat was almost deserted, but if it’s anything like most small towns, word travels fast.

  Who knows how he plans to live that rumor down.

  Even now, the whole event feels like a blur. I still have no idea how Ridge forced Jackknife Pete off me with nothing more than one hand.

  I’ve never seen anything like that Vulcan death-grip he used, either.

  Up until tonight, I’d only heard of Jackknife Pete, but had never met him.

  Those GPS trackers Ridge mentioned, the ones he must’ve destroyed in the back room—I’m assuming that was the hammering I’d heard—must be how Pete found us. He’d probably been following us all day.

  It’s a small miracle he caught us here, where there was someone to help, and not back in Minnesota when we had to change that flat.

  I’ve made peace with the fact we’re not going to Noelle’s.

  She truly doesn’t need this kind of trouble.

  “Let’s go,” Ridge says to me as he shrugs on the brown leather coat he’d lifted off the bar stool.

  Dad and I fall into step beside him, heading for the door.

  Again, I wonder if this is actually a good idea, accepting an invite to stay with this strange man, but we don’t have another option.

  Dad needs rest. Ditto for Rosie and Stern. So do I.

  “Let me have the keys to your truck,” Ridge says as Tobin opens the door.

  I hand them over. There’s no use arguing. It’s still snowing, heavy white slop that’s only piled up higher and deeper ever since we entered the bar.

  There’s a black SUV parked by the door with four flat tires and Pete inside, glaring at us.

  A harsh chill sweeps up my back that has nothing to do with the cold.

  Ridge slaps the hood of the SUV, hard, pointing two fingers at his eyes and then at Pete.

  He’s wearing that grin for our benefit, but his eyes are ferocious. There’s no mistaking their message.

  Don’t you dare.

  God. My heart crawls up my throat just watching how he’s toying with the thug.

  I truly don’t know if this guy’s drunk, high, or just plain crazy.

  Don’t know if I want to know, either, because he’s our only ticket to a little sanity tonight—as insane as that is to think.

  Ridge opens the passenger door of a big silver truck with dual back tires. He holds it open for Dad to climb in. I can smell new leather, new car scent as I stand nearby, watching my father use the running board to ease up and then buckle his seat belt.

  “We’ll see you at the house,” Ridge says as he shuts the door. Then he tells Tobin, “Find him something to help with that cough, and some soup. I know we’ve got something in the pantry.”

  “Certainly,” Tobin says as he climbs in the driver’s seat, sounding more like an employee of some sort obeying his boss rather than a friend.

  Weird.

  While we’r
e walking toward my rusted old two-tone tan Ford, he asks, “Sellers’ Pumpkins, huh? How’s business?”

  Oh.

  Right.

  Though the paint is faded on the wooden rack on the box of the truck, it’s still legible. Amazing Jackknife needed a tracking device at all.

  There’s nothing like trying to disappear with your name plastered across the side of your getaway vehicle.

  Maybe we just hoped we had time before they’d notice we’d blown town.

  Maybe we hoped Clay and his merry band of monsters would chase after something more lucrative than our farm and the thing he’s been after all along. The sick, gut-wrenching thing I still can’t bring myself to admit.

  Wrong.

  The phone call to Noelle proved it even before the goon showed up.

  “That was our farm, our old business back in Wisconsin,” I say. “We raised pumpkins.”

  Under normal circumstances, it would’ve been a good gig, even if it was seasonal. Not one that would’ve made us rich, but it had provided a living, and my parents enjoyed it.

  Ridge gives me a firm, quiet look.

  I can’t tell if he’s amused or laughing at my lame pumpkin-growing past.

  “We had a huge pick-your-own field.” I nod at the horse trailer. “Rosie and Stern pulled a big hay wagon around, giving customers rides. It was kind of a big deal in the fall. Gift shop, corn maze, hot cider and treats, bonfires at night...everything except the zombie costumes.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  I pull open the passenger door.

  “It was for a while.” No lie. I don’t even want to think about how much I’m missing it right now.

  Grabbing the snow brush off the floor, I shut the door and start wiping the snow off the windshield.

  He walks around to the driver’s side and starts the truck, then circles around and grabs hold of the brush. “Let me take care of it.”

  “But—”

  “Darlin’, you deaf? Go check your horses before you freeze to death out here.”

  Okayyy. So, apparently, he’s got that large-and-in-charge bluntness down pat.

  I take off to check on Rosie and Stern.

  They’re a matching team of American standardbreds.

  Both brown with white blazes on their foreheads, white socks, and black tails and manes, they’re hard to tell apart, except to Dad and me.