Page 7 of Cold Foot Komodo

“Oh! Hello.”

“You’re just moving in here?” he asked.

“Yes. Yep, today is moving day. Officially.”

He nodded, his dark eyes on her. “I’m Garret.” He removed his winter gloves to shake her hand.

“Sasha,” she said, introducing herself. Good Lord, was Darby just full of large, handsome men?

“Uhh, I saw a guy helping you unload boxes. Is that your husband?”

“No, no. That’s my…well…”

“I’m an acquaintance,” Reed said from behind her. He reached forward and shook Garret’s hand. “Reed.”

“Oh, man, I didn’t mean to pry. I really wasn’t asking if she’s single or anything. I was just trying to work my way into introducing myself to you, too. Didn’t want it to be awkward.”

“No worries,” Reed said.

He turned to leave, but Garret stopped him. “Hey, is that your truck out front?”

“That’s my truck,” Sasha said.

“With the snowplow on it?” he asked, pointing. Sure enough, there was a white work truck with a huge, raised snowplow on the front of it parked across the street.

“It is,” Reed said.

“You work for MDT?”

Reed nodded.

“My brother is on a crew for the city too. Dylan? Do you know him?”

Reed’s face softened. “I sure do. I am new, but I met a Dylan the other day.”

Garret beamed. “That’s my brother, man. Small world. I saw your truck and I thought he’d come to visit me for a minute. It’s good to meet you guys. Look, I’ll let you get back to it. Just wanted to say hi. If you need anything, Sasha, let me know.”

“Restaurant recommendations?” she called after him as he made his way through the yard toward the house on the right.

“Abby’s Café has the best breakfast in town. For burgers, try The Shack. Beer and wings are at the 406 Saloon. Anything nicer, you’ll have to travel for. Darby is pretty small. You have a good night.”

“You too,” she called after him. Sasha wrapped her arms around her middle to ward off the chill in the air. “Nice guy,” she murmured to herself.

“There’re about four single women in this town. A woman like you is going to meet a lot ofniceguys around here.” Reed cocked an eyebrow, gave her a knowing look, and made his way out the back door through the kitchen.

She followed him, mostly because she hadn’t seen the backyard yet. “So you are a snow plower?” she asked.

“Yep. My official job title is highway maintenance tech.” He jogged down some slick, creaking stairs off the sagging back porch and lifted a tarp to study the woodpile underneath.

“Isn’t that a government job?” she asked curiously.

“Sure is.”

“But aren’t you a felon?”

“Not according to my records. That stuff was wiped clean.”

“By who?”

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