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She shakes her head. “Won’t be. Told you, I was here for business. I don’t do snow.”
I don’t take it personally…
Even if the aloofness in her words pokes something primal in my mind.
“Well, if I’m ever in LA or Vegas, or wherever warm you hail…”
Amusement shines in her bright eyes as she lifts her brows. “A cowboy like you?”
I don’t need to look down at my boots and flannel to know why she assumes I’m a cowboy out here in Montana.
“Could surprise you.”
She regards me for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, I think you probably could.” Then, before I can say anything more, she steps back into the brightness of the bathroom and slides the door closed between us.
TWO
NELLIE
I really freaking hate snow.
And winter.
Andfucking black ice.
I slam my hands against the steering wheel in frustration.
Thankfully, all I did was a couple of full three-sixty turns before sliding into a small-ish ditch, andmorethankfully, a browning snow pile stopped my car from rolling–and roll, it almost did, if that hard, settle-from-rocking motion the car did was any indication.
But that’s about where my thankfulness stops.
Geraldine won’t start again, and even if the engine would turn over, I’m not entirely sure how to get the car out of its current predicament.
My gray Corolla is quite literally stuck between a rock–err, a solid snow pile–and a hard place…the ditch.
A small ditch.
But a ditch nonetheless.
Today has gone to hell in a handbasket, as my grandpa used to say.
It all started when I was asked back to Montana for a follow-up interview I did a couple weeks ago–but only so they could tell me they were hoping to go with someone local.
Why the hell did you invite me back then, assholes?
But I guess, yay for letting me know ahead of time so I can open my spring schedule. Silver lining, and all that jazz.
Then, not even thirty minutes into my trip from Billings to Idaho Falls where I’d stop for the night, I was being tailed by a lifted black truck. Big truck energy, if you know what I mean.
And maybe I made sure my cruise control was set to the posted 55. Perhaps even 54, for good measure. Can’t be too safe, you know.
The ass zoomed around me and laid on his horn, rolling down the passenger window so he could lean as far over as he could to give me the bird.
All while yelling, “Move over, you fat bitch!”
I swear I’m not this petty in normal life, but it’d just been a no good, very bad day, and I’m not proud of what I did next.
It’s not that I have road rage.
