by Taryn Quinn
“Hi!” she called over the rushing wind, her voice as cheerful as her expression. “Thank God for you.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I came around the ditch and eyed her lopsided car. “Yep, well and truly stuck.”
She blinked at me from under the pink fringe of a stocking cap. “It’s just a little fender bender.”
“Oh yeah? Then why are you climbing out of the window?”
She wiggled. “Because the door won’t open.”
“Seems a bit worse than a fender bender to me.” I came around the driver’s side, hooked my hands under her armpits in her heavy down coat, and simply plucked her out of the car.
Only afterward did I think of possible internal injuries. Though what possible injury could’ve allowed her to jump and dance around now that she’d been freed, I did not know.
The other thing I noticed about her right away? She was dressed as if she was in competition with the Michelin man, except her bulk was made out of layers. Many layers. She had earmuffs under her hat to go with her bulky scarf, huge coat, ski pants—likely layered over thermals—and some serious freaking boots with enough snaps and ties to secure a horse.
And yet she was still jumping around, blowing on her gloved fingers, and laughing like a crazy person.
“Whoa, that was nuts. I seriously feared for my life. I saw Jesus and heard angels and all that stuff.” She frowned at her car with its likely bent axel. “I paid extra for the best snow tires. I still skidded. That seems like a warranty violation. Don’t you think?”
What I thought was this chick was going to talk my head off.
“The forecast predicted two feet today. Typical lake effect. Are you not from around here?” Though it was hard to believe someone from a warmer climate would’ve been that well-prepared, but maybe. They did tend to have thinner blood than us hardy northern types.
Though what the hell was I saying? I was a California boy now too.
Happily.
I’d never actually heard someone roll their eyes at me before, but her disgust was palpable. “Hello, look at me. Do I seem unprepared for this weather? If anything, I overprepared. In my trunk, I have a spare battery kit, a First-Aid kit, a tire repair kit—”
“Lady, I got it. You’re prepared. You just spun out. It happens.”
She propped her hands on her hips. Or at least where I figured her hips would be. Hard to tell with her coat.
“Very pragmatic of you, buddy, but now what? I’m stuck and I need to get to Mrs. Pringles’ before she goes to New Year’s Eve mass. This is her first year without her husband, and she puts on a brave face, but she and Joe were so in love. It was sweet to see, really. And if I can’t get there before mass, then I’ll have to wait until she gets back, or worse yet, go join her in the church, which would be okay except I kind of got ex-communicated last year.”
I wiped away the flakes collecting on my face. I would’ve hoped my expression coupled with how I looked might’ve intimidated her—big, burly, bearded—but if anything fazed this one, it wasn’t me glaring at her during her endless monologue.
“I’m sure I’ll regret asking this, but why, exactly, do you need to go to grandmother’s house?”
She brushed snow off the arms of her coat. It was coming down faster than she could efficiently whisk it away. “Oh, she’s not my grandmother—”
“That was a joke, Red.” I gestured toward her attire. Red and pink everything, which didn’t go together but somehow seemed to suit her. “You also have a car instead of a basket, but let me mix a metaphor or two.”
“Ah. Big bad wolf, is it then? Sorry, you don’t seem to fit.” She marched toward me and grasped the side of my pants. “Wile E. Coyote sweats aren’t exactly scary, tough guy.”
“Don’t touch,” I growled and that made her step back and cock her head, much like a puppy. Instead of a floppy ear, she had the bouncy pouf on top of her hat. “I can’t just touch you.”
She seemed to think about that. It was getting darker, and the snowflakes falling between us were coming faster and harder. But if I wasn’t mistaken, she was pondering that comment as if I’d just said the most important thing she’d ever heard.
“No,” she said after a moment. “I guess you can’t. You shouldn’t. Just because Derek ran off with Trini isn’t a reason for me to let strange men touch me. Especially ones wearing sweatpants.”
“What’s wrong with sweatpants?”
The most ridiculous thing about this whole conversation? I didn’t want to touch her. I was almost sure. So what if it had been a while for me? That was by choice. God knows I had women throwing themselves at me front, back and center, and it only promised to get worse as things took off with the single. I’d backed off the fuck-and-duck game simply because I’d gotten bored.
I was tired of fake women cloaked in pretenses who just wanted me for my fame. As much as I exploited my growing fame to get any damn thing I wanted.
Never said I wasn’t a fucked-up bastard, now did I?
“There’s nothing wrong with them, per se. They’re just not fashionable.”
In spite of the fact that my face felt like it was freezing into place, I cocked a brow. “Oh, and that eye-searing combo you have on is? You practically have on a snowsuit. Like a child.”
Her cheeks reddened. I don’t know how I could tell the difference considering she’d been awful damn pink from the wind to start with, but somehow I knew I’d gotten to her. “I’m not a child. I’m a grown woman who likes to be prepared.”
“Huh.” I crossed my arms and jutted my chin toward her car. “So how’s that working out for you?”
She stepped forward, kicking up snow with her gigantic boots. Then she let her gaze wander down the front of me and let out a little harrumph. “And you know what else? Statistics say that eighty-eight-point-six of grown men who wear sweatpants are either still living in their mother’s basements or they’re serial killers.”
Deliberately, I moved into her space, dwarfing her with my size. And yet again, she did not back down. “Those are some odds, Red. Are you feeling lucky?”
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USA Today bestselling author, Taryn Quinn, is the redheaded stepchild of bestselling authors Taryn Elliott & Cari Quinn. We have been writing together for a lifetime–wait, no it's really been only a handful of years, but we have a lot of fun. Sometimes we write stories that don’t quite fit into our regular catalog.
Do you like shorter and dirtier reads?
Anything goes with this pen name.
• Sexy—check.
• Erotic—check.
• Sweet—usually mixed in with the sexy…so, yeah—check.
• Rom Com—check.
• Dark—oh, yeah…check.
• Paranormal—check.
Did we mention that we like all the genres?
So, c’mon in. Light some candles, pour a glass of wine…maybe even put on some sexy music.
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