Snowman

by AC Netzel

  Now he’s reprimanding me?

  “Are you even real law enforcement?” I ask.

  His lips quirk up to a half-smile. “Nope.”

  Wave the white flag. I’m friggin’ done with this guy.

  “Can we get out of here? Please?”

  He takes a small step back and nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Chapter 5

  I grab on to the passenger’s side door handle for dear life, nearly slipping on a patch of ice on the side of the road. I don’t think he saw my close call, or I’m sure he’d spew another speech about my shoe choice. Sliding into the seat, I fasten my seatbelt and place my handbag and laptop case on my lap.

  Volunteer Deputy Lumberjerk is already in the driver’s seat. He turns the ignition key and starts the engine.

  “It’s going to take a minute for the car to warm up again,” he tells me. “It’s a little temperamental.”

  “Okay.”

  We sit in silence while the car idles. I’ve conversed more with taxi drivers waiting at a red light. And for as much as I don’t want polite chatter, the silence is weirdly uncomfortable.

  After what feels like twenty minutes, but was probably closer to two, he shifts the car into drive, and we head to my next adventure.

  “Where am I dropping you off?” he asks.

  “The Holly Inn. It’s a Bed and Breakfast. Do you know it?”

  “Yeah, I know it.”

  “What’s with this area having no actual hotels? The closest Marriot or Hilton was over sixty miles away.”

  “No need. It’s a small town. You don’t like inns?”

  “Shared spaces during my personal time aren’t exactly my thing. I like my bubble. Alone. These places expect you to eat breakfast at the same table with other guests and talk to them. I packed some protein bars so I won’t have to leave my room.”

  “You’re missing a fine breakfast. The owner is a great cook and a better baker.”

  “You know the owner?”

  “My whole life.”

  “Of course. Small town.”

  “You don’t like small towns?” he asks.

  “Small towns are fine. Of course, they lack in culture and the arts. And everybody who lives there knows your business.”

  He directs his gaze towards me for a quick second, his blue eyes narrowing.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m sure you’re happy living here,” I apologize, backpedaling my big mouth’s poor choice of words.

  “Yep. And I don’t mind sharing a table. Especially with good people.”

  “To each his own.”

  “Why are you so antisocial, anyway?” he asks.

  “I’m not antisocial,” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Uh-huh,” he hums.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re not very friendly, are you?”

  “I’m extremely friendly. Maybe you’re a poor judge of character.”

  He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Yeah. Okay.”

  The sarcasm dripping from his tone just increased the degree of his assholiness exponentially. I liked it better when it was weirdly silent.

  “Look, Mr. Volunteer Deputy, I appreciate you helping me out. But do you think you can just drive the car and keep your inaccurate opinions of me to yourself?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I take the opportunity to study him by sneaking a peek while he drives in silence. Not gonna lie, he’s attractive. Almost too attractive. Strong chiseled jawline, lips made for sin, and the perfect amount of prickly, stubbly beard. My personal kryptonite. From what I can see peeking out of his black beanie cap, his dark brown hair is thick and a little wavy.

  And his eyes—Damn, that brilliant blue is stunning.

  Volunteer Deputy Lumberjerk is delicious.

  After a silent ten-minute drive through tree-lined black darkness, we pull into town. House to house twinkling lights, old fashioned snowmen, Santa blow molds, and wintry inflatables adorn the snowy front lawns. Holy crap—talk about neighborhood participation. Every single dwelling is ornately decorated for Christmas.

  We must have made a sharp turn to another continent when I blinked because it looks like we just entered the North Pole on December 25th.

  Thick garlands in lush greens and velvety reds are draped light pole to light pole across the road. Picturesque wreaths hang in the middle of each hearty strand. It’s impressive, easily rivaling any festively decorated street I’ve seen in Manhattan.

  “Wow. This is beautiful. You take Christmas pretty seriously around here, don’t you?” I ask.

  He continues to drive in silence, never taking his eyes off the road.

  “Is there some sort of decorating contest in this town? Every house we’ve passed is decked out to the max.”

  I’m met with more silence.

  “Are you ignoring me?”

  He turns his attention to me for a quick second, his eyes narrowing, then stares forward again.

  “Come on. Don’t be like that,” I tell him. “Say something.”

  “Oh, I can talk now?” he asks in a frosty tone.

  “On second thought.” I can’t with this guy. “Just keep driving.”

  Chapter 6

  We pull up to an enormous Victorian house with hundreds of white twinkling icicle lights lining the rooftop and windows. An ornate evergreen wreath with silver and gold balls hangs on the front door. Every window has a single lit electric candle with a festively decorated pine swag hung under each ledge. A huge porch wraps around the front of the dwelling with a porch swing and a few rocking chairs lined in a row across it. Large brightly colored Christmas lights line the porch, the old-fashioned kind you’d find back in the ‘50s.

  It’s like a Christmas card.

  But not an ordinary holiday card. Oh no, this place is definitely a sparkly notch above. I’m in the presence of shimmering glittered Christmas card greatness.

  A worn wooden sign hanging off a white painted wooden post sits on the snow-covered front lawn.

  The Holly Inn

  Est. 1970

  Home sweet home. For a little while.

  Volunteer Deputy Lumberjerk exits the vehicle without uttering a word, walks to the back of his car, and lifts my suitcase out of the trunk. He trudges toward the front porch with my belongings in hand then turns when he reaches the first wooden step.

  “Are you going to sit there all night?” he asks.

  With my hand resting on my lap and far from his line of sight, I flick my middle finger in his direction. “On my way,” I say sweetly. Grabbing the last of my belongings, I meet him at the top of the steps. “Thanks for getting my suitcase.”

  “After you,” he says with a tight smile. He opens the front door and gestures for me to enter. Even though I’m clearly not his favorite person, he does have manners.

  An overwhelming blast of pine scent practically knocks me over as I enter the small lobby area. Picture having a stuffy nose and dabbing a glob of vapor rub under it, but instead of menthol, you get the actual forest… like someone shoved a pine tree directly up your nostril.

  Standing in front of a modest wooden desk, I ring the small silver bell sitting on top while he drops my suitcase on the floor.

  “Be there in a sec,” a woman’s voice in the distance calls out.

  I take a moment to soak in my surroundings. To my left is a formal living room with a fire roaring in the stone fireplace. Half a dozen red poinsettias are on either side of the hearth, and an enormous Christmas tree with white lights is to its side. Two leather chairs face the fire with two rose-colored crushed velvet couches nearby. It’s cozy, warm, and screams ‘shared space.’

  Note to self: Avoid that room.

  Turning my attention back to the front desk, my eyes meet with my driving buddy. I’m breathless for a quick beat as his eyes draw me in—hypnotic, alluring.

  Damn.

  He’s studying me intensely.
Probably planning my demise.

  I blink a few times and refocus on anything but his handsome face. My vision lands on his hands. Big, masculine—no ring.

  No surprise there.

  “Welcome! Welcome!” My covert gawking is interrupted by a petite grey-haired woman decked out in a red turtleneck sweater, crocheted bedazzled Christmas vest, and a pair of reading glasses hanging on a red and green beaded chain around her neck. She’s holding a ceramic snowman-shaped plate of cookies that smell like heaven on earth, replacing the pine scent previously lodged up my nose. “Sugar cookies with sprinkles. Fresh out of the oven. Please take one.”

  “Thank you. I think I will.” The tiny bag of pretzels, two Kit Kat bars, and a plastic cup of ice with a splash of Ginger ale on the plane haven’t exactly held me over. And it probably added to my crankiness earlier. I’m starving and grateful as I take a warm cookie.

  “Mmm. My favorite, Aunt Holly,” the Lumberjerk says as he grabs two for himself.

  Aunt Holly? Well, that explains how he’s known the owner his whole life.

  “Don’t I know it,” she says with amusement. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  “Gave your guest a ride into town,” he tells her.

  Her brow crinkles. “Really? You know each other?”

  “I had car trouble,” I explain. “Your… err… nephew helped me out.”

  “Of a ditch,” he adds, with humor in his voice.

  “It wasn’t my fault.” Honestly, the roads around here are absolute crap.

  “City drivers.” He points his chin in my direction. I swear that bastard just rolled his eyes at me.

  “My goodness! The roads can be quite treacherous this time of year.” She turns to me and smiles. “You must be Summer Sloane. Welcome to The Holly Inn. I’m Holly. My husband, Kris, and I are so delighted you’re here. He’s closing up the barn now, but he’ll be right in to take up your suitcase. Feel free to hang your coat on one of the hooks by the door. All my guests do.” She walks behind the desk, slides on her glasses, and glances at a handwritten ledger. “You’re booked in the Mistletoe Suite.” She sighs. “Such a lovely room. Breakfast is served between seven and nine o’clock. I do all the baking myself.”

  “I’m not exactly a breakfast person.” I peel off my coat and hang it on a vacant hook.

  “She’s not a people person either,” my driving buddy adds.

  I narrow my eyes in his direction and shoot him the look of murder. There’s a hint of arrogance about him that’s maddening—and unfortunately—attractive too.

  “Behave yourself, my darling nephew.” She wags a finger in his direction then smiles warmly at me. “I hope you change your mind. You know what they say, breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And I love to cook for my guests.”

  “Sure. Maybe. We’ll see,” I answer politely, knowing it’s never going to happen.

  “Looks like you have everything settled here. I best be going. I have to get back to my watch. Say hi to Uncle Kris for me.”

  “Of course. Will you and Noelle come back for a visit soon?” Holly asks.

  Noelle? There’s someone on this earth willing to date this guy?

  “We sure will.” He kisses her cheek, nods at me, then heads toward the door.

  “Hey… uh,” I call out as I walk toward him. “Thank you for helping me.”

  “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Sloane,” he lies.

  Yeah, as pleasurable as a calculus test.

  “It sure has,” I lie back, extending my hand. “Mr.…”

  He slides his hand in mine with a firm grip, and we shake.

  “Snow. Nick Snow.”

  Chapter 7

  “Idiot!” I shout at my reflection in the mirror over the suite’s dresser.

  The only person in town my boss tells me to win over hates me. Well, hate may be too harsh of a word. He strongly dislikes me, that’s for sure. Why, oh why, didn’t I filter myself, zip my lips, and react civilly to his colossal assholiness? I know better. This is a small town—you make enemies with one, you’ve pretty much made enemies with the whole damn place.

  I screwed up big time.

  Flopping down on the canopy bed, I drape my arm across my forehead. “This is fixable,” I mumble to myself. I’ve faced walls before and somehow managed to climb over them. This is a teeny-tiny roadblock. After a good night’s sleep, I’ll regroup, refocus, and figure out how to get in Snow’s good graces.

  I close my eyes and envision my ultimate goal—A big fat promotion, a twenty-story view of the city, and the confidence that I’m not a fraud.

  Nothing and no one is going to stop me.

  Grabbing my cell phone off the nightstand beside the bed, I tap my father’s phone number in my contacts. After three rings, he answers.

  “Hey, Dad. Did I wake you?”

  “No,” he says through a sleepy yawn, “I was watching the news.”

  “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be out of town for a few days.”

  “Going to Chicago to see Brad again?”

  “No. He’s been back in New York for a while… and umm… we’re not together anymore.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “It’s for the best.” I don’t want to talk about another one of my failures with my father, so I dive right into what I know will pique his interest. “Anyway... a few weeks ago I closed on a sale that no one else in my company could. It was a big deal, Dad. And I pulled it off.”

  I’m a liar. A phony—even to my own father.

  “Sales are the main objective in your job description,” he reminds me.

  “Well, umm... because of that deal, my boss gave me the opportunity to advance my career with a major project. You’d love it. It’s big-league stuff. Right now, I’m at a Bed and Breakfast in the middle of nowhere about to make the sales pitch of the century.”

  “Don’t let them step all over you. Prove to your boss she didn’t make a mistake in choosing you. Don’t let her down.”

  Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.

  “I won’t.” Gutted, I swallow down the lump in my throat, my vision blurred by the tears forming in my eyes. “Hey, Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think Mom would be proud of me?”

  He silent for a beat then sighs. “She would be very proud.”

  “Thanks.” I smile to myself as I wipe away the tears in the corner of my eyes. “I’ll let you go. I’ll see you on Christmas Day.”

  “Go get them, Summer.”

  “I will. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight. Be safe, sweetheart.”

  “What the…” The earsplitting crow of a rooster awakens me out of a dead sleep. “Are you kidding me?” I grab my cell phone off the nightstand and peek at the time.

  Six a.m.

  On a Sunday.

  Ugh. This place sucks.

  I stare at the canopy above me. Everything here is white, lace, and doily—except for the rose-colored walls. Hostess Holly must be the county fair crocheting champion because there’s a boatload of crocheted blankets and toilet paper roll covers in this suite.

  Feeling a fatigue/hunger headache already starting, I sit up and reach for a glass of water and a bottle of Ibuprofen off the nightstand. I knew one protein bar and three snack-sized Kit Kats for dinner was never going to hold me over, but I couldn’t deal with another ten minutes of Holly and Kris’—who, incidentally, rocks a white beard like a Kringle—hospitality.

  I swallow down two pills then stretch my arms above my head. Inhaling a deep cleansing breath, I’m pleasantly surprised to discover the usual overpowering scent of pine is replaced with baked goodness.

  Removing the booklet of amenities from the nightstand drawer, I check to see if room service is an option. I know it’s a longshot, but I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on whatever gastronomic delights are happening on the floor below.

  Not surprisingly, there’s no room service available. Disheartened,
I saunter over to my suitcase, grab a protein bar, and take a bite. It tastes like sawdust with a hint of imitation something that I can’t quite put my finger on. The wrapper says vanilla. The wrapper lied. It tastes like feet, and it’s just as unsatisfying as it was last night.

  Reading through a string of late-night, barely coherent drunk texts Valerie sent about her sexual fantasies with her chiropractor that came after I fell asleep, I instinctively reach out to grab my coffee mug. Then I remember, there’s no cup of coffee. Dammit. Valerie says I’m a total bitch without two cups of caffeine coursing through my veins.

  She’s right.

  Must. Have. Coffee.

  I have no choice. If I sneak downstairs, I can grab a quick cup of java, then slip back up before anyone spots me. Breakfast doesn’t officially start until seven o’clock. I’ll beat the rush if I go right now.

  I don’t have to look in a mirror to know that my hair is a hot mess. It’s a given. Grabbing my handbag, I dig deep and search the bottom for a hairband. There’s always a few mixed into the receipts, empty candy wrappers, and other crap I have swimming at the bottom of my bag. Frustrated that I can’t locate one, I dump the contents on the bed. I swear the hairband and sock fairies are in cahoots and messing with us. I uncrumple receipt after receipt, hoping one of the stretchy black bands will appear. Finally, success! I tie my hair up in a messy ponytail, throw on a pair of yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, and exit my suite in search of a caffeinated lifeline.

  Slowly, I pry my door open and peek side to side in the hallway to make sure I don’t bump into any early-bird guests. The coast is clear, so I follow my nose down the creaky wooden staircase to the dining room area.

  “Miss Sloane!” Holly exclaims as she arranges a bouquet of white and red chrysanthemums in a vase on a long farmhouse table. “I’m delighted you’ve changed your mind.” She pulls out a chair at the dining table. “You’re early for breakfast. The other guests haven’t arrived yet.”

  That was the point, Holl.

  “I just came down for some coffee. I was going to bring it back to my room.”