Page 2 of Never Sleigh Never
“I couldn’t agree more. About Paul Rudd. Not the crow’s feet.”
Behind the counter, coffee mugs rattle against each other as if the Polar Express were barreling down the tracks, except there aren’t tracks running through town. I spin around. A semi-truck rumbles down Mistletoe Street like it owns the place. My brows knit together. This isn’t a common sight in a town with a population of one-thousand-two-hundred-fifty-one and one rebellious sheep. Following the semi-truck are two pickup trucks towing cargo trailers. Did they take a wrong turn off the highway? That’s the only logical explanation for why they’re rolling through Mount Holly. After the third truck passes, silence settles in. It’s eerie. Like the calm before the storm. Just when you think it’s over, but in reality, it’s a false alarm. The storm is only building momentum. Then another semi noses into view, this one is hauling a twenty-foot metal Christmas tree strapped to a flatbed. All the noise inside Sip and Sleigh drains away as I push outside and onto the snow-covered sidewalk. The icy wind smacks me in my face. Truck after truck drives past like a scrolling marquee.
If they want the highway, they need to turn east, not west. As the last truck drives by, I fixate on who’s behind the wheel. My heart rate spikes. All the air pushes out of my lungs. Oh no. No, no, no. Logan fucking Crawford.
I whirl around and duck my head, praying he didn’t see me. Would he even recognize me? It’s only been eighteen years since I last saw him. In person, anyway. As the white pickup truck passes, I peer over my shoulder as he follows the convoy of other trucks. I check my phone—one hour until I need to be at town hall. A split second later, I make the worst decision of my Monday. I follow. Shoving my phone into my pocket, I race down the sidewalk and jump inside my SUV. Turning over the engine, I shift into drive and make a U-turn onto the road and follow the parade of trucks through downtown and toward the outskirts of Mount Holly. I follow closely enough so I won’t lose them, even though it would be hard to lose a convoy of trucks, but I also don’t want to make it obvious I’m following them.
To say I hate Logan Crawford is an understatement. I despise, no loathe, no despisingly loathe him. It started in elementary school, continued through middle school, and escalated in high school. We were both top of our class. But of course, he was valedictorian because he not only excelled with his grades but was also the captain of the hockey team, which added three state championship trophies to the school’s display case. So I’m sure it was easy for teachers to give him a pass or extra credit because he was such a great athlete. By not being top of my class, I missed out on a scholarship opportunity that would have been a full ride to my first-choice college. Instead, I settled for my second-choice school. Even before that, he had to one-up me at every opportunity. For our middle school fundraiser, I raised a respectable $1,200. He had to outshine me with $2,100. I got an ACT score of 34. Of course, he had to get a 35. Needless to say, after graduation, he left town to go to Boston College on a full-ride hockey scholarship. I stayed in Minnesota with a scholarship that paid only a fraction of my tuition.
My SUV creeps to a stop next to an open field on the side of the road across from the Reindeer Ridge Tree Farm. Henry, the owner, usually used it for overflow parking, except it’s gone untouched for the last few years. The rumbling of heavy machinery pushing snow around echoes over the rolling hills. Mesmerized by what’s happening, I pull the handle on the door and step out onto the road.
“What the hell is he doing?” I whisper, rounding the hood. Squeaking brakes cause me to whip around. An oversized box-style truck stops inches from my rear bumper. I race around to the back. A big, burly guy in a tan jacket and a black knit cap jumps out, slamming the truck door.
I point at the sliver of daylight between our bumpers and then glare at the guy. “Hey, you’re a little close, don’t you think?”
“Just parking my truck.”
“Perhaps you could throw it in reverse and park it so you’re not mounting my car like it owes you dinner.”
He strides toward the rear of his truck, then thumbs over his shoulder. “You’ll just have to pull forward.”
I stomp my foot. “Fine!”
The steady beeping of a truck reversing mimics the throbbing in my temples. I spin around to the bright white reverse lights getting closer. I hoof it toward the front of my SUV. “Hey! You can’t park there.”
Another guy, skinnier than the first but wearing the same tan jacket and knit cap, steps out and shuts the door. “Well, I can’t park in there since they’re moving snow. I gotta park somewhere.”
I peer down at the tiny gap between our bumpers. Oh my god, they trapped me in. My vehicle is in a three-way it never wanted. “What the hell?” I throw my hands up in the air.
“You got plenty of room.” He shrugs before strolling down the makeshift driveway.
“You can’t be serious! Someone should take your license away if you think that’s enough room! Maybe I’ll call Carson and have you towed instead!”
Asshole Number Two meets up with Asshole Number One, and they merge to create a super asshole and continue ignoring every word I’m yelling.
I stare at my front bumper. Granted, it is more room than Asshole Number One left me, but certainly not enough to get out. As I stomp down the shoulder and around the front of Asshole Number Two’s truck, I yank out my phone, scrolling for Carson’s number. Head down, I round the bumper and step into the road?—
“Brie!”
Time slows. A hand clamps on my forearm and yanks. I lose my footing and stumble just as another truck screams past. My phone slips from my hand and crashes into the gravel. Wind from the near-miss blows my hair everywhere, and I slam into… flannel. Warm, steady, soft flannel. My eyes flutter open. I get lost in a fresh, clean linen scent. Is this what heaven smells like?
“Are you okay?” The voice is soft, but my spine recognizes it before my brain.
I tip my chin up until I meet mesmerizing hazel irises. My gaze drifts down his slightly crooked, sloping nose to the dimple of his left cheek. Every muscle in my body stiffens. Not heaven. Hell.
His fingers brush against my back, breaking me from my trance. I shove my way out of his grasp. “What are you doing?” I can’t keep the venom out of my tone.
He stumbles back, brows lifting. “Saving your life? I guess next time I’ll let the truck hit you.”
My mind’s a jumbled mess. I was just in Logan Crawford’s arms. My hands on his chest. A truck nearly turned me into roadkill. “Well, the truck was going entirely too fast. And it wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you,” I spit out.
“Wow. So this is my fault now?” He crosses his arms over his broad chest.
“Yes. Yes, it is. It’s exactly your fault.” I mimic his pose.
He rolls his eyes. “Please. Explain.”
“If you never came back to town and started doing whatever you’re doing with all the trucks,” I wave at my currently trapped vehicle, “and caging me in, this wouldn’t be an issue. What are you doing here, anyway?” With my hands on my hips, I bore my gaze into his, but he doesn’t back down.
