Carats and Coconuts

by Scott, D. D.

  Oddly enough, Nicky Blane was then silent for a long while. Long enough that before he said another word, we’d exited the parking garage and were already on 465 North headed to his farm.

  “Maybe my ego gets the best of me ‘cause no one else does,” he muttered, barely loud enough for me to hear him over the heat blasting and the wipers swiping at the ice that was hitting the windshield.

  “What do you mean by that? You’re a bestselling author many times over. I’d say, with you, every reader gets the best.”

  “I’m not talking about my readers.”

  “Then what are you talking about?” I asked, thinking this was a very strange conversation to be having with “the” Nicky Blane, Mr. Macho, who could have any chick he wanted and who made a regular habit of keeping a steady stream of them at his beck and call.

  “If you’re referring to women, maybe if you got to know one, more than overnight, some not-so-bright one might stick around for a while.”

  “Never mind. You’d never understand. And hell, if you did, you sure as hell wouldn’t care.”

  Well now that wasn’t true. Okay. Maybe sort of. But it’s not like I really actually hated the guy. He just irritated the hell out of me. Kind of like a pesky fly at a picnic that keeps showing up when all you want is another bite of your pie.

  “Am I really that much of a cold witch to you?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer, but knowing that at least I could count on him to give me the truth.

  That’s one positive. The guy never sugar-coated a damn thing.

  “I do call you Allwitch.”

  “Point taken.”

  “I will give you some credit though. It wasn’t until after your divorce that I lost all hope in you having a heart.”

  It was my turn to say ouch, which I did.

  “I’m that bad?”

  “Yep…that bad,” Nicky said, turning onto the two-lane highway that would take us almost another hundred miles north to his farm.

  “Sorry about that,” I said, settling back into the ultra-comfy leather of his Cadillac SUV.

  “Me too,” he said, clearing his throat then turning up the soft-rock station currently playing some over-the-top depressing Air Supply tune.

  I sooo did not need to be reminded that I was “All Out of Love”.

  Instead of the melancholy music that appeared to be Nicky Blane’s preference, I decided to focus on the scenery outside the SUV.

  ‘Course with Valentine’s Day upon us, I doubt we had many choices other than love songs.

  At least we weren’t tuned into that God damn Delilah, who I swear had to be the cause of multiple suicides across her syndicated talk show reach.

  Okay…just for the record, I used to luuuvvv Air Supply and Delilah.

  But yes, that was also before The Big D, when the man I thought was my prince turned into one mighty huge and ugly-ass bullfrog!

  As snowflakes fell around us in a fury, slamming against the vehicle’s windows then dissolving into big drops of water, I thought about what a flake I’d been to fall for Hank Aldredge.

  What if my heart and soul never thawed out and instead remained frozen as solid as the two-foot high snow drifts lining these northern Indiana country roads?

  To be continued in STUCK WITH A STIFF (Book One of the Stuck with a Series)…coming in March 2012