Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 106538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Just as I get into a groove, Taylor says my name. “Have you met Ozzy?”
I fumble my wrench and smack my head on the hunk of metal above me.
“Yo, Ozzy?” Taylor calls.
I rub my head and step around the engine. “Yeah?”
“This is Maren Bernabe. She’s been flying with us for seven fire seasons. A real talent. Montana’s lucky to have her.”
Maren casually slides her long, wavy blond ponytail through one hand while sipping her mug of coffee with the other. A blush fills her cheeks as she rolls her blue eyes at how Taylor’s gushing about her.
“Maren, this is Ozzy. He’s been here four, five months?”
“Almost five,” I say, wiping my hands on a rag.
Her eyes widen, lips pressed together until they start to turn white.
“Maren, this guy is saving the earth. He rides his bicycle to work, even in the snow. And—” Taylor glances at his phone. “Oh, excuse me for a second. I have to answer this.” He takes a few steps away from us, holding his phone to his ear.
She’s an impressive tanker pilot, and I ride a bicycle. I feel two feet tall as I inhale to pull back my shoulders and fake more confidence than Taylor has bestowed upon me this morning.
Too late.
Maren smells like flowers while I emit the appealing scents of kerosene, oil, and solvents—just a few of the daily odors that permeate my clothes and skin.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
She cringes while whispering “You’re the guy who got me toilet paper and a pad.”
I try not to smile, but only half-succeed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Maren’s smile is confident, with just the right amount of vulnerability, like she knows how to laugh at herself. “You do. But thank you for playing it so cool. My day’s not off to a great start. I just stopped by to update some paperwork before my first shift next week, and it’s gone downhill from there.”
A few seconds later, I lift my gaze to hers, realizing she hasn’t missed me eyeing her long legs in tight jeans or that coffee stain by her boob. I swear I was only looking at the stain.
Her eyes narrow a fraction. Yeah, she thinks I’m a perv. Now I have to shit on her day to save myself.
“Maybe you should head home, get in bed, and climb out on the opposite side.” I nod to her shirt.
Glancing down, she runs her hand over the stain and mumbles, “Are you kidding me? God, I make the worst first impressions.”
“You’re a beautiful mess.”
What. The. Hell?
Why did I say that? It just came out of nowhere.
Maren lifts her head. “Thank you, but you’re too kind.”
Kind? Perhaps.
An idiot? Definitely.
“So, bicycling in the snow?” Maren furrows her brow.
“It’s a fat-tire bike. And honestly, when we had that heavy snow in January, I walked.”
“Wow. You must live close.”
“Four miles.” Six from Lola’s school.
Her head draws back. “You walked four miles to work? In the snow?”
“Guilty.” I lift a shoulder.
“That’s . . .”
“Manly. And complicated.” I playfully puff out my chest.
With a slow nod, she echoes, “Complicated, indeed.” Then she smirks when my manly reference registers. “I was stressed out. I get snarky when I’m stressed. Sorry.”
I brush it off with a tiny headshake.
“Are you new to Missoula?” she asks.
“No.” I leave it short and sweet while tucking the rag into the pocket of my coveralls.
“Oh? Where were you previously employed?”
Behind me, Miles turns on the angle grinder, making it hard to hear, so I smile until he’s done. “It’s a long story. I’ve been at home caring for my daughter. Her mom died in a car accident two years ago, right after I was offered a position here,” I say. “And luckily, another position became available when I was ready to work again.”
Maren frowns. “I’m so sorry.”
Her mom. I called my wife “her mom,” and I did it because I’m attracted to this woman. And it’s the first time the thought of another woman has crossed my mind in two years. I don’t know if I should celebrate this moment or berate myself for needing to avoid the word wife. My thoughts are far from idle. They dig up that seemingly innocent statement from Lola this morning.
If you want to have sex again before you die, I’m okay with it.
“Thank you,” I say, rubbing my neck. “It’s been a rough road, but it’s good to be working again. Normalcy is refreshing.” I don’t know if Maren buys it. But I keep telling myself this while riding my bike to work, the grocery store, the bank—everywhere. That’s not normal.
“My brother, Brandon, died three years ago,” she says with an empathetic smile. “So I feel you.”
“Oh, no. I’m sorry,” I say.
Maren nods several times. “Thanks. I’ll, uh”—she jerks her chin toward the engine—“let you get back to work. Again, thanks for your help earlier. If the stars align and we never see each other again, my pride will have a chance to recover.”