Page 5 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

I press the start button again, fingers shaking now. The engine gives a weak clunk, then nothing.

“No, no, no.” I jab the button harder, as if force will change the outcome. Silence. The dashboard flickers, then dies completely.

Panic claws up my throat. My breath fogs in the freezing air, each exhale quicker than the last. I try again.Click.Nothing.

I grip the wheel like it might anchor me. This can’t be happening.

Forcing myself to breathe, I glance out the windshield. Snow swirls thick and fast, blanketing the road, the trees, everything. No headlights in the distance. No sign of life at all. Because I picked a remote cabin for my off-the-grid vacation. All the betterto avoid the media. And apparently, all the better to get myself killed in a ditch with no one around to find me.

I reach for my phone again, heart lurching when I see theNo Servicesymbol still taunting me. My only lifeline, useless.

A shaky laugh bubbles up, edged with hysteria. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, willing my pulse to slow down. No use panicking. I just need to think.

My car’s stuck, my phone’s useless thanks to the glorious lack of signal out here, and the nearest town is miles away.

Great plan, Ivy. Really stellar.

I rub my hands together for warmth, the cold creeping in fast. I have a thin coat in the backseat, but even with it on, I won’t last long if I have to hike through this storm.

I’m going to freeze to death, alone and headline-worthy.

Then—headlights.

Bright beams cut through the swirling snow, growing larger, closer. A truck pulls up. It's massive, dark against the snowfall. I squint, trying to piece together if it’s offering me safety or a threat.

A shadow moves, and before I can even process it, there’s a sharp rap against the window. I jump, my heart hammering against my ribs.

A man's face peers in, eyebrows lifted in question. Scruff-dusted jaw. Winter-chapped lips. Eyes like storm clouds, piercing even through the glass.

Oh. No.

My stomach does a weird flip. My mortification resurfaces in full force.

It’s the rugged beauty from the bathroom

My life is a cosmic joke. A never-ending parade of humiliation.

Maybe I did die and this is my own personal hell. That would make sense, actually.

I stare at him, willing my brain to reboot, but all it does is replay every mortifying second of our last encounter. My mouth opens—maybe to speak, maybe just to gasp for air—but nothing comes out.

Well, this is fucking awkward.

Bathroom Guy lifts an eyebrow, then gestures for me to roll down the window.

I blink, then glance pointedly at the dark dashboard, the silent engine, the very obvious lack of power. What does he think this is—the eighties? Am I supposed to magically summon a hand crank from the depths of my door panel?

I turn back to him, expression flat, and lift my hands in an exaggerated shrug. His gaze flicks to the door, then back to me, like he’s waiting for me to catch up.

"Need some help?" His voice is muffled through the glass, but I hear the concern.

Oh, for the love of?—

Chapter 3

Hank

Icrouch down, my hands buried in the snow as I inspect the city girl's car. The chains I have are useless without a safe grip on her bumper. I give it another try, tug at the metal, but it's no good. It’d rip right off if I forced it.

---