Office Grump An Enemies to Lovers Romance - Nicole Snow Page 0,167

ridiculous, and by far the happiest thing I’ve seen all night.

“I think we’re in luck,” I say, smiling.

We’re close enough to read the name stenciled in curly lit letters under the cat’s face.

The Purple Bobcat, it reads. Good eats. Beer. Fun.

“Looks like a dive,” Dad says as the building comes into view. “Whatever, it’ll do.”

I nod, holding my breath for signs of vehicles in the lot. I don’t want to get my hopes up unless it’s still open.

The bar itself is a one-story wooden building painted bright purple. The owner must be a huge Prince fan or just hellbent on grabbing attention out here in the sticks.

Coming closer, the windows are lit up bright with beer signs. Looks like a few trucks parked in front of the building.

I exhale that breath I’ve been holding.

It may not be much, but right now a parking lot and a few walls feel like a luxury resort.

“It’s still open. Hope you’re hungry,” I say, easing my foot off the gas.

I refrain from tapping the brakes. It’s hard to determine just how much ice is packed under the snow.

The last thing I need is to send the trailer fishtailing across the lot and smack right into some good old boy’s favorite pickup.

Two little blue reflectors sticking out above the snow tell me where the driveway is. I slowly steer the truck between the reflectors and pull up along what I’m assuming is the edge of the parking area where there’s room to park without boxing in other vehicles. Plenty of room to make an easy turn when it’s time to leave, too.

“Don’t forget your hat,” I remind Dad as I shut off the truck and stow the keys in my purse. “Go on ahead of me; it’s freezing out here. I’ll check on Rosie and Stern, then meet you inside.”

Dad grumbles under his breath.

Something about being perfectly capable of looking after himself, but he puts on his wool-brimmed hat to humor me. I smile as he pulls the side flaps down over his ears, giving me a firm look that says happy? before opening his door.

I dig around on my lap and find my green-and-gold stocking cap, and then tug on my thick, fur-lined, made-in-Duluth Chopper mittens. The wind coming in through Dad’s passenger door is so bitter it rips my breath away.

When I open my door, the cold makes me shiver from head to toe.

“Winter, bite me,” I say, mostly to myself because I don’t think Jack Frost is listening. And if he is, well, the sweeping chill he flings in my face is worse than a middle finger.

Tucking my chin into the collar of my coat, I pull the fur-lined hood tighter around my face to help block the wind. I hate every single big fat snowflake stinging my cheeks and catching on my eyelashes as I waddle past the truck in my boots to the trailer.

Thankfully, it only takes a few minutes to check on the horses. They must be freezing, but they aren’t showing any signs of distress from the ride or bad weather. I feed them a couple carrots they wolf down like starving beasts before my own stomach growls.

If my lucky streak continues tonight, maybe this place will have something that isn’t oozing grease. A girl can hope. It’d be nice to keep my blood sugar levels in the happy range where I’m not hankering to chew my own arm off.

By the time I enter the bar, I’m ready to call the weather a winner.

I’m chilled to the bone. The dense snow packed on my boots makes my feet feel like they’re twenty pounds heavier. It’s a workout as I go stomping through the door.

The Purple Bobcat isn’t nearly so colorful inside.

Too bad.

It’s smaller than it looked on the outside, dark and dingy, but fairly clean. No ripped-up seats or rickety tables or cracked tile floors. No ugly crowd of guys missing teeth or gals with their boobs hanging out of their shirts over pool tables, either.

The wood-paneled walls are covered with metal signs advertising retro beers and off-color jokes. Dad’s found a table where he’s parked himself to look over a menu.

One of the only occupied tables tonight, it seems.

If this place has regulars, or newcomers, or even long-haul truckers looking for a nightcap and a side of bawdy conversation, the storm has kept them all away.

Who could blame them in this blizzard?

There’s an older man and woman in a booth near the frosty windows, picking at what