Jess lets loose a string of expletives about my mom’s weight, the sexuality of my non-existent little brother and the moonshine brewing talents of my grandpa but he keeps his meaty fists to himself.
“Look, Jess, you’ve had too much to drink,” I say in a voice barely above a whisper. “Why pick a fight with a big guy like me when you won’t even remember it in the morning? But if you really want to, I’ll oblige you. Just leave Angelica alone.”
“Fuck you, Evermore. You’re the asshole. Stay out of shit that isn’t your business. If I want a little fun with Angelica, it ain’t none of your concern.” It takes an enormous amount of wind and hot air until he finally runs out of insults to hurl at me, his breath coming in white pants between us. I just stand there and take it trying to do damage control and keep the animosity between me and Sweetheart Hill’s resident dipshit to a minimum. I’m not looking to make an enemy out of Jess that might require the man to constantly seek revenge. I just wanted sweet, innocent Angelica left alone.
How do you know that she’s sweet and innocent?
My eyes narrow because I don’t really know, but my gut tells me differently. Once Jess’s insults wind down, I inhale, studying the man’s expression. The ‘I want to kick your ass from Sweetheart Hills to Duluth’ settles down. Jess seems like he’s just plain cold, shivering violently in his light jacket, snow dripping from his beard and down the back of his neck, settling into a snake tattoo. A few minutes in arctic temps has a way of letting everything outside of survival fade into the background.
Content he’s finally learned his lesson, I shove him toward the door and walk away. Thoughts of Angelica will just have to wait until after a good night’s sleep.
Chapter Two
Angelica
God, why are men so disgusting and hateful?
Not finding an answer to my rhetorical questions, I blow a puff of steam into the frigid air. All I want is to avoid the other half of the human species, so it seems the height of irony that I find myself in a sin den full to the brim of raging testosterone. In a coffee shop no less. Of all the places to be fondled like the town whore. But screwing up is my specialty and when I make a mistake it’s go big or go home. My life has been filled with the colossal, viral social media, the whole town talking for weeks and weeks kind of gaffes.
How did I know that I’d land in Sweetheart Hills, the manliest city in northern Minnesota? But I was headed even further north toward the border when I blew a tire and after talking to the locals, kind of fell in love a bit.
With the town that is. Apparently, they have a Valentine’s Festival every February and who could object to that kind of romantic gesture?
I stuff my hair under a cap with pom poms and grab my snowshoes. The pastel colors of the yarn soothe me, and I crocheted it myself. After I breathe in a lungful of the crisp air, I tell myself that moving here was a good idea. Misunderstanding the woman to man ratio notwithstanding. I’d also failed to understand the simple concept of making a living. In my wildest dreams, I’d never thought I’d have to become a server, catering to asshats and perverts, but there had been no other jobs for women in Sweetheart Hills.
Not even one.
My dream is to teach organic soy candle making and open my own shop. I want to be the Yankee of the great white north, sans toxic chemicals. With stars in my eyes, I heave a sigh. I’m not quite there yet, despite my savings.
My next shift at Cool Beans in the land of reality doesn’t start until five for the dinner rush, so my day stretches out in front of me until the bewitching hour.
I take a tentative step, my snowshoes forging fresh tracks in the new snow. I glance around, in awe of the gorgeous Minnesota countryside. Coniferous trees flocked with the new flakes surround me, reaching toward a bright blue sky. The rolling woods are deep and peaceful. With every dip in the trees, rays of sun glisten on the stark white. Squirrels race around searching for a morsel of food and coming up empty.
I have no idea where I’m headed, and I don’t really care. After last night, I just need to be alone with my thoughts and the silence. There are endless acres of pristine land to explore. My rented cabin provides an idyllic place for a woman to hole up and live as a celibate man-hating hermit.
There’s no family around for me to disappoint.
No town looking over my shoulder, waiting to judge me for leaving the town hunk alone at the altar, despite his humiliating betrayal.
And although the Jess’s of the world are giving me fits during my shifts, during the day I don’t have to see anything with a dick unless I want to. And nothing with a Y chromosome appeals to me anyway – at least not in this godforsaken town.
The picture of an illicit fantasy flickers to life in my imagination.
A reflection of a huge, hulking man with searing green eyes drifts through my mind unwanted and unwelcome.
Especially not him.
You’re not attracted to him, Angelica.
Not. One. Bit.
Giant saviors hold zero sex appeal, right?
*checks notes*
Nope. Not one iota of sex appeal for this girl.
Despite my inner turmoil, I let the image linger, indulging in a little afternoon inspection. I remember the stranger’s overwhelming height and how he towered over me. How he plucked me to safety as if I weighed only a few ounces instead of almost two-hundred pounds. I remember the rare sensation of feeling safe. Because men who look like a hot as hell mountain man never go for curvy chicks like me with extra padding all around.
Back home in Iowa they call me farm fed.
I just call myself fat.
No matter how much I starve and exercise, I can’t get rid of my extra layer. And if I even look at a carb, I blow up like a pufferfish.
But for once, it seems my first impression of a man around my age might be dead on. The whole time I waited on him, he was kind and quiet. Most of all respectful. There was no teasing or touching. But maybe that was only because he has no physical attraction to me whatsoever. How could he? A man like that could have any woman he wanted with just a tiny crook of his finger.
But a girl can dream. And thinking about him is like indulging in a little window shopping at Nordstrom’s famous shoe department. I can look at the Jimmy Choo stilettos, but I can’t touch. And I sure as hell can’t afford to buy them without taking out a second mortgage. My mind drifts to his chiseled jaw lined with sexy scruff, his full lips and of course those compelling eyes.
After last night, his gorgeous face is etched on my brain. Never to be forgotten.
And when he touched me, I caught some major feels.
At the time, it barely registered that I was being rescued. He moved like a hunter, swift and steady, hauling Jess outside with a blur of power and rippling muscles. He never said anything – didn’t even come back inside so I have no idea what happened out there in the inky night air. When Jess came back in, he looked none the worse for wear, but he was polite to me until he left for the evening.
I owe that giant savior a debt of gratitude. Especially if it holds up and Jess doesn’t come back in looking for revenge against me or my mountain man.
No, not mine.
And I will thank him properly – that is if I ever see him again – but right now I have other things on my mind. My snowshoes drift through the fallen snow. I’m still new to snowshoeing and still prone to losing my balance and falling down but getting better each time I head outside into the elements. As I work up a cadence, the chilly air pinkens my skin and brings tears to my eyes.