Just One Kiss - J. Saman Page 0,3

up, I know it’s useless. I had no service before the crash and looking at the screen now, I see it’s no different.

Fucking hell. What am I going to do now?

Chapter Two

MILES

“Knew he was a killer first time that I saw him…” Taylor Swift, unfortunately, sings through my speakers as Betsy howls appreciatively, snuggling into my side and bumping my shoulder with her nose.

“Don’t cuddle up to me,” I warn her. “We really need to have a serious discussion about your taste in music. It’s insanely emasculating that I allow my dog to dictate the music choice in my own truck. If anyone ever saw this, I’d never hear the end of it.”

Not that anyone is ever in my truck besides me or Betsy, but still. It wouldn’t be good. And really any excuse to get rid of this once and for all, I’ll take.

Betsy is undeterred by my threats. She knows they’re baseless.

She nudges me again, barks, and I sigh, pressing a button on my steering wheel to turn up the angsty chick music. When I rescued her from the shelter last month, this is what came with her. Taylor Swift. “It’s the only thing that soothes her,” the girl told me with a gleam in her eye as she tried, and failed, to hide her smile.

So here we are. Driving along the snow-covered highway, headed home with a truck full of groceries that will last us well through the new year, listening to Taylor belt out song after song. Some pop. Some country.

All giving me a headache.

I have the plow on the front of my truck up, but as the snow is really coming down, I’m starting to debate lowering it to clear some of the highway. If not just for me, but other motorists coming this way as it doesn’t seem like the state has started plowing yet.

This storm hit us quickly and a bit unexpectedly.

What was supposed to be a small dusting, just a few inches, has turned into a nice old nor’easter, complete with ice and wind and buckets of heavy snow. Personally, I love it when it gets like this. I hunker down in my shop and ignore the outside world. No tourists I have to make nice with coming through. Just me and my work.

Well, and now Betsy.

But uninterrupted peace and quiet.

Exactly the way I like to spend the holidays.

Just as I decelerate and lower the plow to tackle some of the heavy wet stuff, Betsy starts barking. Loud and urgently. She shuffles across her seat, pressing her snout against the foggy glass, scratching at the door.

“What’s up, girl? I can’t let you out here. The snow is coming down too hard. We’ll be home in fifteen minutes. You can hold it until then.”

But she’s not giving up, growing more demanding by the second, and that’s when I catch it—the flash of glowing red amidst the white about fifty yards off into the woods.

Shit. A car must have lost control and crashed.

“Alright, girl. I see it. Calm down.” I pat Betsy’s back, slowing down and plowing my way over to the side of the highway. I don’t dare take the truck into the bank. Though it could probably handle it, I’d rather not risk getting stuck myself. I stop, placing the truck in park and narrowing my eyes through the windshield, trying to get a better look at what I’m facing.

The tiny sporty convertible looks like it hit a tree, but I can’t see anyone. They’re probably still in the car instead of trying to brave the elements. I’m tempted to call the police, but I need to know the situation of the driver or other passengers before I do that.

If it’s just the car that’s stuck and no one is hurt, I can call Earl, who might be able to drag it out of here before things get any worse.

But if they’re hurt, that’s a different story.

The nearest hospital from here is a solid thirty miles away and in this weather, that might as well be a hundred.

“You stay here,” I tell Betsy, zipping up my coat and throwing my hood over my beany because it’s cold as hell out. I hit the button for my hazard lights and open the door against the blustering icy wind and snow that assault me instantly. I jump down, right into over a foot of snow, some of it from the storm we had last week and shut the door behind me.

Tucking myself in, I