Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16684 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 83(@200wpm)___ 67(@250wpm)___ 56(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16684 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 83(@200wpm)___ 67(@250wpm)___ 56(@300wpm)
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Grant
Snowflakes hit my windshield like tiny frozen bullets, each one adding to the sheet of white obscuring my view of the road ahead. The wipers are working overtime, battling the accumulating snow that's determined to blind me from the world outside. I'm driving through Arctic Mountain, the sort of small town that’s barely a speck on the map. Two hours from my home in Glacier Pass, I’m thinking how nice it will be to sit in front of my own fireplace with a glass of whiskey to warm me up.
It wasn’t supposed to snow this hard, but here it is, a storm that’s taken on a life of its own, rattling against the windows and making the world feel like it's going to be swallowed whole by white. I squint through the glass, trying to make out the road ahead, but it's futile; everything's blending into one seamless sheet of white.
My phone rings. I can barely hear it over the noise of the storm, but I know who it is before I even glance at the screen. Mom.
I click the answer button on my steering wheel. "Hey, Mom."
“Grant, where are you?” she asks without preamble.
“Just hit Arctic Mountain,” I reply, trying to sound calm, even though my nerves are beginning to fray.
“The news says there’s a blizzard warning. You need to stop and get off the road.”
“I’m fine, Mom. Just a couple more hours, and I’ll be home.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I know it’s the wrong fucking thing to say. “You know polar bears love the snow.”
There’s a pause filled with the hissing background noise of phone interference. I can imagine her sitting at the kitchen table, brow furrowed like she’s scolding me even through the phone.
“Don’t be a stubborn ass, Grant Winston Bearly. Polar bears love playing in the snow, not driving in it. You can still get seriously hurt if you get in an accident. Pull over and find a place to stay for the night.”
I flinch at the tone in her voice. She only uses my middle name when she's truly worried or totally pissed off. Despite my initial resistance, I know better than to ignore my mother. Reluctantly, I nod, even though she can’t see me.
“Son.” My dad enters the conversation. “Get your ass to a hotel so your mother can stop worrying.”
Since there’s no arguing with George Bearly, I sigh. “Okay. I’m looking for someplace to stay.”
“Good. Your mother doesn’t need any more gray hairs because of your stubbornness. Call us back when you get a room.”
“Yes, sir.” When my dad uses that tone of voice, I feel like a five-year-old all over again.
We hang up, and I focus on the road, scanning for signs of civilization through the swirling white. The headlights catch a wooden sign pointing to The Chilly Mountain Inn, its name painted in cheerful red letters that are now dusted with snow. It sits on the edge of town, barely visible through the thickening snow.
I turn into the snow-covered parking lot and pull into what I hope is a spot. I can see warm light spilling out from the windows and the outline of what looks to be a cozy lobby inside.
I step out into the frigid weather and grab my bag from the back seat before making a beeline for the entrance. While the outside temperature is near zero, I’m fairly comfortable thanks to my inner polar bear, but I’m dead tired.
The moment I step inside, I'm hit by a wave of warmth and the scent of something sweet. My inner polar bear wakes up and growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten a thing today.
The older woman behind the counter looks up, a pleasant smile on her face despite the late hour. "Rough night?" she asks, her eyes glancing briefly toward the swirling snow outside.
"You could say that," I reply with a nod, trying to shake off the discomfort. “It will be much better if you have an available room.”
"You're in luck. We’ve got a few rooms left," she says as she clicks through some reservations on the computer.
I fill out the necessary forms and hand over my credit card, my nose perking up, trying to find the source of the addicting scent.
“Here you go,” the receptionist says, handing me a key card. “Room 12, just down the hall. Breakfast is at seven if the weather clears enough for you to head out by then."
I thank her and grab the key before heading off toward my room. The day’s tension weighs heavily on my shoulders as I make my way down the short hall. Nothing about today has gone as planned. I had wanted to leave Anchorage much earlier so I would make it back to Glacier Pass before the storm blew in.
My new client overslept and missed our agreed meeting time. I tried to reach him for two hours, but he didn’t answer my calls. I was ready to call it a total loss and head home when he reached out and apologized for his screw-up.