to be shot down, no doubt about it.
He’d hurt her, way back in high school, and been too much of an idiot to realize it.
Even now, Brynne was clearly wary of him.
And she’d relegated him politely but firmly to the friend-zone.
What was the point?
He’d be just another fool, standing around and hoping the next year would be better than the last one—or, at least, no worse.
Barely able to make out the shape of his mailbox, just up the road a way, Eli flipped the turn signal switch, even though there wasn’t another car in sight, coming or going.
It was habit.
Laura had passed this way with the plow, since the left-hand side of the road was relatively bare, but there was a two-foot berm blocking his dirt driveway, which was under about ten inches of snow as it was.
Eli didn’t stop at the mailbox—he paid his bills online and nobody wrote letters anymore—he merely shifted into low gear and barreled down the driveway, depending on momentum to keep him from spinning out and getting stuck.
He could see his house up ahead, between the dizzying flakes flying like frenzied bugs now, a plain log structure, rectangular in shape, with a stone chimney at one end and a cyclone fence out front.
There was one of those at the back, too, to contain his dog, Festus, who couldn’t be trusted not to chase a deer or a rabbit or some other critter into the next county, if he got loose.
Festus had a pet door leading out of the kitchen, so he wouldn’t be waiting for a toilet break, but he’d sure as everything be ready for some company.
Most dogs were sociable. Festus was obsessed with human companionship—so much so that Eli let him ride in the county’s SUV with him most days.
Today had been an exception only because Eli had had to be at the courthouse for most of the morning, testifying in a burglary case.
Smiling a little at the prospect of Festus’s enthusiasm, Eli thumbed the button on his visor to open the door of his detached garage—made of logs, like the house—parked the truck inside and shut it again. He left by the side door and hurried toward the house, stomping the snow off his feet when he reached the back porch.
Festus, a lop-eared mutt of indeterminate ancestry, shot outside to greet Eli, the rubber door flap swinging behind him. He barked jubilantly, and Eli paused to ruffle his brindle-colored ears, even though it was colder than a well digger’s ass outside, and he wanted to build a fire, slam back a beer, take a hot shower to get the chill out of his bones, and pull on sweatpants and a T-shirt.
After that, he intended to rustle up some supper, sit himself down and think about Brynne Bailey in peace.
Weigh his options and decide, one way or the other, whether he ought to try to get back into her good graces or just leave well enough alone.
He managed the hot shower—after wrestling with a very playful Festus for nearly fifteen minutes—proceeded to the kitchen and then opened the refrigerator.
Since he hadn’t gotten around to shopping for groceries—what with all the Christmas shindigs he’d gone to, he hadn’t needed much in the way of grub—he settled for a boxed meal from the back of his ice-furred freezer, which tasted only slightly better than it looked when he slid it out of the carton and onto the counter.
While the food pirouetted inside the microwave, Eli filled Festus’s bowl with kibble and topped off his water.
He’d pick up some supplies in the morning—beef and chicken, bacon, spuds, some decent vegetables and fruit. Maybe even a couple of those salads that came in a bag, complete with croutons and dressing.
Half the county might be snowed in by then, but Eli wasn’t worried for himself. That truck of his would go damn near anywhere, especially with chains on the oversize tires.
The packaged dinner was everything he’d expected it to be, and less, but he choked it down anyway because he was hungry and he hadn’t finished his burger and fries back there at Bailey’s.
He’d been too distracted by the waitress.
He grinned, grabbing a beer from the fridge and heading for the living room. Brynne wouldn’t like being called a waitress, he figured. No, sir.
She might have come back to the Creek to take over her parents’ dining joint so they could retire, but she wasn’t like other women who’d grown up in rural Montana and liked it