“You have no reason to try to get back in that car.”
“Yes, I do. I need my bread before it gets cold.” I sighed. “Well, any colder than it already is. My hot bag can only do so much.”
“Your hot bag? Woman, you make no sense.”
“Stop calling me woman, and it’s an insulated bag to seal in warmth. I used it to protect Mrs. Pringles’ bread. It’s her favorite, pumpkin chocolate chip.” I craned my neck to look up at him, intending to shove his big paws off me, but his head was tilted and his lips were parted, revealing just a hint of bright white teeth.
And those dark assessing eyes were searing right through every damn layer of my clothing.
“Kindly unhand me,” I repeated, not missing the slight chatter of my teeth. I wished I could blame the cold. It was so much worse than that.
I was by the side of the road with a disabled car and a possible Ted Bundy wannabe with soulful eyes, and I didn’t even really care that he was keeping me from my bread.
Mrs. Pringles’ bread. Same difference.
“You might injure yourself further if you attempt reentry. Let the professionals handle it.”
“Further?” I frowned. “I’m not injured.”
Was I? Quickly, I took stock. Everything still worked. Arms, legs, mouth. Definitely mouth. Sure, my heart was beating a bit too fast and my thoughts were skidding out of control, but that was normal for me. My dad called me “fanciful,” which he partially blamed on my obsession with the macabre. My mama said I spent too much time with my head stuck in a book. My brothers—all three of them—called me some variation of Magpie, my childhood nickname that had stuck like a damn flytrap. Maeve and Regan, my perfect older sisters, just sighed at my supposed antics and went on with their lives.
So yeah, mental babbling was typical for me. And often, actual babbling, though the dude hulking over me was not inspiring to foam at the mouth as I usually might.
I didn’t know men like him. The guys I attracted were safe, nice boys. The kind who went to church on Sundays and pulled their elderly neighbor’s newspaper out of the bushes and always referred to my parents as “Sir and Ma’am.” They didn’t have edges. They didn’t skimp on their manners. They definitely didn’t miss their morning shave.
As far as assisting someone with car trouble, they would’ve been sweet and helpful and fixed the problem before I could ask. Not brusque and dismissive and now rough as the brute hauled me around and set me a few feet away from my vehicle.
“Stay there.” He pointed at me. “I’m going to take care of your problem so you can get on your way.”
“About time. Do you have a truck hoist?”
He was already moving toward my car. He studied the door for a moment, then yanked on the handle. It opened for him with only the slightest effort.
Traitorous car.
Fumbling inside, he realized my window was the crank-up kind and shut it so the front seat didn’t fill with snow. “Guess the door wasn’t so stuck after all,” he shouted over the wind.
I rolled my eyes. Sure, if I had the strength of an ox, no problem. “I asked if you had a truck hoist?”
“A truck hoist?” he echoed, clearly not paying attention as he studied my car.
“Yes, to pull me out of the ditch.”
“No, I don’t have a truck hoist. What I do have should do the trick though.” He shut the door without grabbing my bread or any of my belongings, then climbed out of the ditch, pulled a cell phone from his pocket, and hit a button. Smugly, I might add.
This man did not have an air of friendly cooperation, that was for sure. As for neighborly concern? Nope. Nada.
After a minute, his smug expression flattened. His mouth thinned out and he gazed at his phone as if he’d misdialed. He hit a button again, waited, then yanked the phone from his ear. “What the fuck?”
I tried not to blanch. Of course, I’d heard swearing before. I was a college student, wasn’t I? But in my family home, we had a tip jar. Anyone who swore put in a five-dollar bill. Forget a one-dollar bill. My parents had wanted us to learn appropriate words swiftly, and parting with five dollars of our allowance had worked fast.
Pretty sure this dude didn’t have a jar. If he did, he’d probably smash it with one of his hamhock fists.
“Is there a problem?”
“No. Definitely not. The tow truck place isn’t answering. No big.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve.”