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Nelson looks at his daughter again.
She gives him a slight smile, shrugs, and nods.
I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath until her meager smile turns my way.
“Great. Grab your coats and I’ll be right back.” I scoop up the GPS trackers and walk over to the bar.
“Got a hammer back there?” I ask Grady.
He frowns, folding his powerful arms, and waves toward a door behind the bar. “In the back. Don’t leave a mess for me, Ridge.”
I round the bar.
“No big. I just need to borrow it. I’ll pick up every piece.”
I enter the little service room next to the kitchen, find the hammer hanging on a wall, and find a clear spot on his metal workbench. Nothing of Pete’s is military grade, and it’s easy to bust apart. The phones snap, crackle, and pop with a few good swings after I’ve removed their batteries.
The asshole outside probably has them connected to his SUV and God only knows what else, but hopefully this helps slow down his mischief. Just for good measure, I give his precious blade a good whack. It tears off its handle and goes skittering across the surface.
Before leaving, I toss the shattered remnants of the trackers, phones, and the knife in the trash, then grab my coat off the back of the bar stool.
“What should I do about the prick outside?” Grady asks. “Don’t like the thought of him hanging around after I close up.”
“Leave him. You called the sheriff, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but they said it’ll be a couple hours before they can get out here for a lockout. And all the towing places are closed or filled to capacity in this shit.”
That bums me out.
I was hoping they’d come haul him in and commandeer his vehicle, too. I’m sure the devious bastard has a record.
“My guess is he’s stolen more than one car in his time. If the cops are dragging that much, he’ll be out of your hair soon enough. He’ll figure out a way to get the doors unlocked and hit the road with his flats. Especially once he hears the law’s coming.”
“Works for me. One less problem to deal with.” Grady shrugs, but gives me a small grin. “Thanks for a fun night, Ridge.”
I chuckle and walk toward the table.
Whatever else happened, at least it was interesting. My stomach hiccups as my gaze locks on the woman’s.
Damn.
Now I have to face the equally unpredictable consequences of my fun night. Everything old Tobin will give me a talking to about.
Mom always said sometimes I got too deep in my roles back when I was every producer’s golden boy.
Sometimes, I let my heart do the thinking instead of my head.
Go ahead and guess how that ends.
Not fucking well.
3
No Fight Left (Grace)
I still can’t figure out if Dad and I are being rescued or kidnapped—or which would be worse.
There’s something else I can’t shake, too.
This guy in his red-and-black plaid shirt, who calls himself Ridge, looks oddly familiar.
It’s one of those freaky I-swear-I’ve-seen-someone-who-looks-just-like-you spidey sense moments.
But in my state of mind right now, I might just be comparing him to Paul Bunyan because he’s got the flannel lumbersexual thing down in spades.
Rather than a blue ox, this guy has Tobin, his straight-out-of-corporate-looking sidekick. Tobin seems younger than Dad by a good ten years or so, maybe early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, oval glasses, and frown lines that have only deepened since the entire scene at the table started.
I can’t figure that out, but honestly, it’s the least of my worries.
Ridge, with crystal-clear blue eyes and dark brown hair, has a perma-grin plastered on his face that’s barely faded since he’d first stormed up to our table and laid down the law.
I still can’t believe he frog-marched Clay Grendal’s goon out into the snow like a bag of trash.
I still can’t believe he stepped in, offering to help a couple total strangers.
I definitely still can’t believe he implied we’re dating—a heartbeat from being flipping engaged.
The size of my disbelief could have its own zip code.
Granted, the Purple Bobcat was almost deserted, but if it’s anything like most small towns, word travels fast.
Who knows how he plans to live that rumor down.
Even now, the whole event feels like a blur. I still have no idea how Ridge forced Jackknife Pete off me with nothing more than one hand.
I’ve never seen anything like that Vulcan death-grip he used, either.
Up until tonight, I’d only heard of Jackknife Pete, but had never met him.
Those GPS trackers Ridge mentioned, the ones he must’ve destroyed in the back room—I’m assuming that was the hammering I’d heard—must be how Pete found us. He’d probably been following us all day.
It’s a small miracle he caught us here, where there was someone to help, and not back in Minnesota when we had to change that flat.
