Prologue
Out of all the people in all the world to be stuck in the snow with, it had to be him. It had to be this mouthwatering, hot as fuck, push-all-his-buttons, check-all- boxes bear of a man. Strike that. Bear of a straight man.
Just his luck.
1
Quentin Frost anxiously awaited the verdict as Jerry, the AAA guy he’d called half an hour earlier, checked out the engine of his ancient Corolla. It had sputtered, then stalled, smoke and the distinct stench of burning oil drifting up from under the hood. He’d quickly parked the car on the shoulder of the quiet country road and had made use of his AAA membership for, like, the tenth time that year. Best. Investment. Ever. Though in hindsight, he should’ve maybe invested in a better car if he was gonna drive cross-country.
It had taken Jerry only twenty minutes to get there, which was awesome because Quentin was freezing his ass off. His thin jacket and jeans were no match for the arctic temperatures, but especially not for the biting wind that had free rein here out in the open.
He’d already planned on investing in some serious cold-weather gear, but maybe he should’ve done that before arriving in the northeast. A not-so-slight miscalculation on his part. He’d never been so motherfucking cold in his life. The kind of wet, icy cold that penetrated your bones, making you feel like you’d never, ever get warm again in your life.
Wait, how long did frostbite take? He looked at his hands, slightly blue-ish by now.
“I’m sorry, son, but that car is beyond saving.”
Quentin refocused on Jerry’s growly voice and let out a long sigh as the guy closed the hood of his car with a loud thunk. Fuck me sideways. He was so screwed right now. Jerry wiped his hands on a black-stained cloth, then adjusted his faded blue Yankees cap. Judging by the many black stains on the front of that cap, this was a habitual gesture for him.
“Now what?” Quentin asked. “I can’t imagine the car can stay here.”
The damn thing had broken down on the side of the road just outside of some tiny village at the foot of the Adirondack mountains. The view was breathtaking, and he’d admired it as much as he could while he drove, but fat little good that did him now.
Jerry shook his head. “Nope, it can’t. I can tow it to a junkyard that will take it.”
“Will they give me anything for it?”
Jerry shrugged. “Mac might. I can call him, if you want.”
Quentin frowned. “Mac?”
“Mac McCain, he’s our local junkyard owner. He’ll take anything, and he usually pays a decent price. Want me to give him a call?”
Quentin nodded as he blew into his hands in a futile attempt to warm them up. What alternative did he have? He’d have to figure out a way to buy himself a new car, though how and with what money, he had no idea. His research grant barely covered his cost of living and did not allow for frivolous spending, as Professor Danson had stipulated. Would a car be considered frivolous? It would be damn hard to get around without one. What a clusterfuck.
“Mac, it’s Jerry. Got a young kid with an oh-one Corolla that’s toast. He wants to get rid of it. You interested?”
Young kid. He probably didn’t mean it as patronizing as it came across, but at twenty-three, Quentin was sick and tired of people calling him a kid. Not that he could blame them. He didn’t look much older than eighteen—if even that. Fuck, with his babyface, they’d probably still card him when he was forty.
Apparently, the guy on the other end was highly economical with words because seconds later, Jerry had affirmed they were on their way. Quentin watched as the man expertly hooked up his car to his tow truck, and within minutes, they were ready to go.
Jerry wiped a few hamburger wrappers off the front seat to make place for Quentin. “Where were you headed?” he asked once they were driving.
“Northern Lake.”
Jerry shot him a curious sideways glance. “What the hell for? There’s nothing there.”
Quentin held his hands in front of the heater to warm up. “That was kind of the point.”
He debated telling Jerry why he was so interested in that tiny town but decided against it. It would probably raise more questions than he was willing to answer. Plus, Northern Lake wasn’t that far from here, so who knew if Jerry had been there, had friends or family there? No, he wasn’t risking it, not until he’d built up a rapport with the locals. Then he could find out more about what had happened to his dad. Hopefully.
When they entered the town limits, Quentin did a double take when he spotted a handcrafted wooden sign with the town’s name. “This place is called Frostville?”
“Yup,” Jerry said. “Frostville, New York. Population of 1800 and change.”
What were the odds? Quentin smiled at the incredible coincidence of him landing in a town with the same name as his last name. Maybe it was destiny? Nah, there was no such thing. Facts, that was what he dealt in. Cold, hard, scientifically proven facts. Or so his professors had kept telling him. Research was all about the facts.
Frostville was a quaint little place with local stores lined up along an old-fashioned Main Street. Quentin counted a few bars and restaurants—one diner proudly claiming to serve the best burgers in the Adirondacks—and a gas station with a convenience store, and that was it. Before he could comment on it, they had left the town behind them.
“Mac’s property is just outside of town,” Jerry said.
“You live here?” Quentin asked.
“Yup. Born and raised. I cover a big area for my job, but I happened to be home when the call came in, since it’s my day off.”
“You were off today? Then why’d you respond?”
“Because my nearest coworker was fifty miles out, and I didn’t want to have him drive this far at the end of his shift. It’s fine. I’ll be home before dinner.”
Quentin let that sink in. He’d never heard of someone voluntarily working on his day off just to prevent inconveniencing a coworker. This was probably part of the small-town dynamic he was eager to study in depth. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, son. We’re here.”
Jerry pulled up at the entrance of a fenced-off property, and almost immediately, a big dog came running out, barking his head off. Quentin barely had time to feel properly intimidated because on the dog’s heels followed his owner. Now, that man was a reason to be intimidated.
Quentin swallowed as he took in the man striding outside. He was a giant, wearing stained jeans, sturdy work boots, and a black jacket. But what really caught Quentin’s attention was the lip and septum piercing, his dark hair, which peeked out from under his black beanie, and a dark beard as menacing as the look in his eyes.
Jerry sighed. “Like his owner, that dog barks more than it actually bites. You’ll be fine.”
Quentin had to take his word for it. Jerry opened the door of the tow truck and slid off the front seat. After a second’s hesitation—he wanted to make sure the dog didn’t attack—Quentin followed his lead.
“Mac,” Jerry said, reaching for his cap again.
The guy merely nodded without even a hint of a smile. He snapped his fingers at his dog, who stopped his—her?—barking immediately.