No Perfect Hero

  No Perfect Hero

  Nicole Snow

  Ice Lips Press

  Content copyright © Nicole Snow. All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America.

  First published in April, 2019.

  Disclaimer: The following book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance characters in this story may have to real people is only coincidental.

  Please respect this author's hard work! No section of this book may be reproduced or copied without permission. Exception for brief quotations used in reviews or promotions. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thanks!

  Cover Design – CoverLuv. Photo by Mariusz Jeglinski.

  Contents

  About the Book

  1. Drop Down With The Top Down (Haley)

  2. Those Flames Keep Rising (Warren)

  3. Talk About Nothing (Haley)

  4. Game, Set (Warren)

  5. Match (Haley)

  6. Waiting Game (Warren)

  7. Stray Cat Strut (Haley)

  8. Spinning In My Head (Warren)

  9. I Don't Dance (Haley)

  10. Ready to Blow (Warren)

  11. Disaster Zone (Haley)

  12. Taking Over (Warren)

  13. Pregnant Silence (Haley)

  14. Finding Our Groove (Warren)

  15. Heaven At Home (Haley)

  16. Nightmare Balm (Warren)

  17. Don't Wait Up (Haley)

  18. Detour (Warren)

  19. Last Run (Haley)

  20. Across the Line (Warren)

  21. I Say When (Haley)

  22. Foxholes (Warren)

  23. Over the Edge (Haley)

  Still Not Over You Preview

  About Nicole Snow

  More Books by Nicole

  About the Book

  Bossy. Heart of stone. Snarly mess next door.

  Send help before I'm prick-matized...

  My next big mistake has a name.

  Warren Ford. Best kept secret in this weird little town.

  An alpha's alpha. Spartan abs. Too blunt for everybody's good.

  Moody, broody, mysterious, and totally up in my business.

  I thought Heart's Edge would be safe.

  No two timing exes. No pink slips. No hulking, loud, inked up –

  Oh. Right.

  Leave it to a badass to bring the drama piping hot.

  Then he goes and saves a cat who means the world to my little niece.

  Making me a mushy little puddle of wishes.

  Wishing I didn't know his savage kiss like my own reflection.

  Or how erasing tears must be his superpower.

  Wishing I'd never poked his scary past.

  Or heard him growl when he swears it's not our future.

  There's no way this works.

  He's no white knight. I'm no princess.

  I need to go. He says stay.

  Even our sheet-ripping nights can't work miracles.

  Only an answer as the danger closes in.

  Is Warren my perfect slice of hero?

  1

  Drop Down With The Top Down (Haley)

  There’s nothing like a drive across the Pacific Northwest with the top down and the summer wind in your hair to make a girl feel human again.

  Sure, it’s a little bit of a cliché.

  The typical girls’ road trip, me and my niece in a convertible sipping strawberry smoothies every hundred miles, the sun beaming down on us like Zeus blowing a kiss. It's too perfect.

  You'd almost think I'm totally not running away from my problems, darting off to the middle of nowhere to find myself after a colossal heartbreak.

  But when you walk in on your ex-fiancé with your ex-best-friend-ex-bridesmaid in a fitting room with the ugly bridesmaid’s dress you paid for hiked up around her hips and his untailored tux down around his ankles...

  You earn the right to be a cliché.

  I’d say I’ve earned a lot more than that.

  Especially after I found my layoff notice sitting in my inbox.

  Right-sizing. That's what they called the terminations at the massive faceless mega-corporation I called my day job. I was out the door with an awkward hug and a mumbled half apology from my supervisor.

  Then – oh, but then – everything really went to hell in a handbasket.

  My side gig – my true passion – got tanked when the gallery I’d been working with practically pitched my paintings in a dumpster.

  Low sales, they said. Lack of interest.

  They might as well have pulled an Angela Bassett.

  Get your shit, get your shit, and get out.

  So I got my shit.

  I packed it in the back of my sister’s borrowed classic convertible – a pretty midnight blue shimmer 1988 Ford Mustang. I kidnapped my sister’s ten-year-old daughter, Tara, because she’s better company than some backstabbing, fiancé-stealing best friend anyway.

  And now that I’m knee-deep into being a cliché, I wish we were leaving Vegas.

  But we're actually leaving Seattle so I can start a new life in Chicago. We'll steal a spare room at my old college friend Julie’s house for a month or two until I can get a new job and pay the rent on a place of my own.

  I’ll give the kid back eventually, I guess.

  In a few weeks, when her parents get home from Hawaii.

  I’ll care about responsibility later.

  Right now, I’ve got the mountains on the horizon, tall trees all around, the wind in my hair, the sun on my back, and enough of a grudge against life that I’m good with not making big decisions for a while.

  I’ll figure out what to do after I get to Chicago and see what the local job ads serve up. It’s a big city. Lots of opportunities.

  Until then, I’ll enjoy the drive. The open road.

  Sweet freedom I've prepaid for with a savage bee sting to the heart.

  Tara snoozes half asleep in the passenger seat, her dark brown hair whipping across her face. She’s a sun baby, dozing in the heat, curled up like a cat perched on a summer stone.

  The radio shifts as we pass out of one zone into another, and she stirs at the crackle, yawning and scrubbing at one eye. “Auntie Hay?” she mumbles.

  I hate when she calls me that. Mostly because it makes me feel old when my first instinct is to say hay is for horses, baby – and twenty-five is way too young to be throwing out that spinster crap.

  But she’s too adorable for me to twig her about it, so I glance over from watching the road, offering her a smile. “Morning.”

  She blinks at me drowsily. “It’s afternoon...isn't it?”

  “Not to you, apparently.” I check the GPS.

  We’re just past Lolo National Forest and Missoula after a quick pit stop in Glacier National Park for Tara's sake. We swung up to Whitefish to take in the scenery. Next stop should be Billings. There's maybe a day or two of driving to Chicago after that, but it’s not time to look for a hotel for the night just yet.

  Tara's little hand goes over her yawning mouth.

  “You hungry? There might be a place to stop in the next hour or so.”

  Tara scrunches up her nose. “Maybe. I kinda need to pee,” she complains, and I bite back a laugh.

  There’s just something about kids and their shameless honesty.

  I could use a little honesty in my life again.

  I glance back at the GPS. There’s a town up ahead, not even named, just a little dot on the map and an off-ramp marker in about five minutes.

  They’ll have a gas station, at least. Hopefully a sanitary one – or some kind of restaurant.

  I squint through the windshield, picking out the reflective green sign in the distance, and merge over into the right lane to take the off-ra
mp that leads down through a dense, tree-lined slope of land.

  But just as we’re cruising onto the ramp, the Ford starts to sputter.

  My stomach sinks.

  Uh-oh. That’s never a good sign.

  This beast is still moving, though.

  I manage to get to the bottom of the off-ramp where the road curves around toward a little town in the distance, picturesque and dusty and a little too Norman Rockwell. Almost like it’s been plucked out of those ubiquitous paintings in hotel rooms by artists you’ve never heard of but who’ve probably made a killing selling enough prints for every last Motel 6 down every stretch of Highway Americana.

  I’m just not sure we’re going to make that Rockwellian little town.

  Not when the Mustang keeps coughing and slowing and when I curse, mashing my foot against the gas pedal, all I get is Tara gasping and whispering, “Swear jar!” and not an ounce more juice.

  At least we make the turn.

  And manage to coast forward about another hundred feet before the last little bit of oomph I get out of the Mustang sends us floating over onto the shoulder like an oversized yacht caught in a current.

  That’s what it feels like, trying to maneuver this long, bulky car after its get-up-and-go just got-up-and-went. Exactly like trying to steer a big, heavy boat against the current, but that boat doesn’t want to go anywhere but down.

  The Mustang sputters out with a little grunt, like it’s settling in and telling me it’s giving up.

  I try the key in the ignition, but the engine only makes a wheezing, rattling sound without turning over. Well, crap.

  Craaaaaaaaap.

  My sister’s going to kill me if I killed her car. It was a gift from her husband on her thirtieth birthday.

  She's one of the lucky ones who found a guy who gets her. Instead of sleeping with her best friend, John buys her gifts that suit her tastes.

  She must’ve snagged the last good one. Because I swear every man I’ve met in the last five years – including the one I'd planned to marry – is trash.

  Okay. Whew.

  I’m bitter. I’m angry. Breathe in, breathe out.

  Life goes on.

  That's what I keep telling myself, a daily mantra.

  And surely my brother-in-law can’t really be the last decent man on Earth.

  I have bigger worries right now, anyway.

  Clenching my fists on the steering wheel, I stare between them. “Well, kiddo,” I say. “Hope you don’t mind peeing on the side of the road.”

  “Why can’t I go there?” she asks. “I bet they have a bathroom.”

  She’s leaning over the passenger side door and squinting across the field to the right of the car. I follow her gaze, squinting through the light.

  I hadn’t even noticed where we’d pulled off, too focused on trying to make the damn car move.

  But there’s some kind of...hotel? Inn?

  I’m not sure what it is, but it looks like a vacation lodger’s dream. There’s a tall three-story house set far back in the field, lined with columns in the front. It's surrounded by well-tended greenery. Pretty shade trees are scattered across the manicured lawn, precisely spaced along little cobbled paths leading between a cluster of cottages, some singles, some duplexes.

  The entire portrait is set against the backdrop of distant, smoky-looking mountain ranges beyond a steep cliff, and that Rockwellian feeling gets even stronger as I catch the sign hanging from a post up ahead.

  Charming Inn.

  Huh.

  Well, maybe the name fits because it is charming.

  Even if a city slicker girl like me probably sticks out like a sore thumb here, I hope the locals will be friendly. At least hospitable enough to let a kid use their bathroom.

  I can’t let Tara suffer much longer. She’s squirming around, thighs pressed together, and I flash her a smile and get out of the car, slamming the door and reaching in the back for my overnight bag and her backpack.

  “Come on,” I say and offer her my hand. “Let’s go meet the locals.”

  We push the quaint little white picket fence open and quick-time it up the central walk to the main house. It’s an old plantation-style building, really strange to see here in Middle America, but it’s been fitted out to be a hotel, it looks like.

  There's a little bronze plaque to one side of the door, listing the lobby hours. When we step inside the carpeted, Victorian-furnished lobby, a small bell over the door rings. Behind the broad, glossy front desk, a faint snort sounds.

  Followed by a crash, as the sleeping occupant of a tipped-back chair jerks and goes tumbling down to the floor.

  Tara gasps with surprise – then squeaks, whimpering, dancing from foot to foot and clutching my hand tighter. “Auntie Hay...”

  I glance around quickly, then notice the sign on the far wall with the little male and female symbols and an arrow. “There, sweetie,” I urge, pointing. “Down the hall. Go.”

  Tara takes off at a crab-legged trot. I watch her for a moment, then lean over the front desk, peeking in tentatively. “Um, hello? Sir? Are you okay?”

  A rheumy-eyed older man pushes himself up off the burgundy-carpeted floor, using the toppled wing chair to haul himself upright before grunting and flipping it over to stand properly again.

  He spikes his short-cropped silvering hair with one hand, leaning on the chair with the other, eyeballing me as if he's not quite sure what to make of me before grunting and offering a reluctant smile.

  “I’m fine, ma'am. Takes more than a tumble to kill this old ticker.” He thumps his narrow, reedy chest. “Something I can help you with?”

  “I hope so.” I flash a smile. “My niece needed to use your restroom, sorry. But we’re in a little trouble. Our car broke down right outside your inn, and I'm afraid we're stuck.”

  “Well, now...”

  He rubs his stubbled chin. He’s very jowly for such a thin, willowy man, like his face is melting. I know that look and try not to let my own frown show. He’s a heavy drinker, and it’s aging him fast.

  I'll never forget that look for anything after Dad...

  I don’t know if it makes me feel softer toward the old man. Or just more bitter toward the first man who taught me people would always find a way to destroy themselves, and usually they don't have to look real hard to find it.

  Dad grabbed the first opportunity when life went sour, one bottle at a time.

  But the stranger smiles again, disarming and almost self-deprecating, as if he knows the picture he presents and how people judge. He shrugs. “We’ve got a mechanic here in town. Good ‘un, too. It’s late in the day, and you might get a tow, but you’re not getting a fix to get out of here by sundown. We’re all booked up on short stay rooms...but we’ve got a half-duplex available in one of the extended stay vacation rentals. It’s even got a mountain view.”

  I frown. As nice as it sounds, I know it means money.

  I’m operating on a limited budget since I basically tossed most of what I own and took off on my last paycheck, plus what I could sell back from the wedding that never happened and ate my entire savings.

  I’ll have to pay for the car repair, too. I’m crunching numbers in my head, and it doesn’t look good. “I don’t know if I can afford something like that.”

  “It’s all I’ve got, and we’re the only hotel in town.” He folds his arms on the counter and leans toward me. I catch a faint whiff of rum, but not enough to drive me back. “Listen. I’m not about to let a lady in distress and a little girl sleep in their dang car in a strange town. I’ll give you a discounted rate. Only charge you what I would for a single room. How’s that sound?”

  I twist my lips. “Name your rate.”

  “Sixty-five per night. How's that sound?”

  I whistle softly. That’s really not bad at all.

  Back in Seattle, sixty-five dollars a night wouldn’t even get you one of those cheap motels with the anonymously painted prints. More like the kind of place
where people pay to live there by the week and police are in the parking lot every night. A place like this – half an entire duplex?

  Yeah. I’d say we just lucked out when it comes to places to break down.

  I look out the window, pretending to mull it over a little longer.

  What do I have to lose?

  The scenery’s nice, the atmosphere’s pretty, the lodgings are cheap...and I could use a little downtime somewhere quiet and relaxing to get past my Bitter Betty stage and move on with life.

  Maybe it's meant to be.

  I nod, imagining the next week. We’ll stay until the Mustang’s fixed, then onward to Billings.

  “All right. Sold,” I say, digging in my purse for my wallet and my credit card. “Who’s in the other side of the duplex, by the way? Just so I won’t bother them.”

  “Oh—him.” The way he says it is a half snort. Almost ominous, but he waves it off with a shake of his head. “Don’t worry, miss. He’ll keep to himself. He’s just a harmless grouch. Minds his own business 'cause that's all he ever minds. You probably won’t even see him.”

  I arch a brow but pass my credit card across with a shrug.

  Everybody’s got their own way of doing things, and I’m not one to judge. I’ll likely want to be left alone myself, minus the always entertaining company of my pint-sized sidekick.

  “Is it too late to call the mechanic to at least get a quote?” I ask, watching him punch in my information on the keyboard behind the desk.

  “Nah. I’ll ring him up for you while y'all get settled. I need your number anyway for the register.”