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“Oh.” A soft, dreamy expression slides over her face. “You’re very resourceful.”

“I can be.” Fuck, I hate leaving this bed. Especially when she’s in it, hair wild, skin flushed, her legs tangled in the sheets. Nothing but pure temptation.

Maybe she senses my hesitation. She rolls to her side and slips out of bed, tugging her top into place as she moves toward her closet. I force myself to turn away and head down the hall, each step more reluctant than the last.

***

Fifteen minutes later, I step onto the back porch and the wind slaps me in the face, cutting through my leather jacket. Yup, I’d really rather be upstairs in bed with Margot.

Soft, weightless flakes pour from the sky in a heavy, steady fall, piling up fast.

Someone cleared off the porch and steps and shoveled a path to the garage, but it’s already covered with a fine dusting of snow.

A push broom and shovel rest against the house, coated in a soft layer of snow.

I take the shovel and carve a narrow path toward my truck—hat and gloves are in there somewhere.

No warmer coat, though. Fucking forecast never mentioned this much snow getting dumped on us.

The gloves are old, but warm. I wiggle my hands into them and pull on the knit cap, covering my ears, then continue digging through the SUV.

Blanket, tarp, knife.

Glass cleaner, paper towels.

Another knife.

Empty gas can.

Compact tool kit. Tire repair kit and a portable air compressor.

Jumper cables. Tow straps.

Wire cutters. Zip ties.

Duct tape, Electrical tape.

Another knife.

Bolt cutters.

Ballpeen hammer.

A box cutter—why the fuck am I carrying so many cutting instruments?

Flashlight. Headlamp.

Absolutely nothing useful for snow removal.

“Motherfucker,” I grumble, slamming the tailgate shut with an unsatisfying thud.

“Morning!”

I turn.

Margot’s cousin Paul greets me with an amused smile. “Cold enough for ya?”

So engrossed in searching through all the shit stashed in my ride, I missed the sound of the snowblower cutting out and Paul creeping up on me.

Wrath’s right, my situational awareness needs improvement.

“You could say that.” My gaze sweeps the driveway. “I thought I heard a snowblower?”

Paul jerks his thumb toward the front of the house. “Died on the sidewalk.” His red face scrunches into a sheepish expression. “I think it’s out of gas? At least I hope that’s what it is.”

“I’ll run out to get it,” I offer. “Is it a two-stroke, or four?”

An embarrassed smile spreads over Paul’s face. “It’s newer, if that helps.”

Be nice. He’s Margot’s cousin. A mortician, not a mechanic. I couldn’t drain a body—he doesn’t know what kind of snowblower he has. It’s all good.

I nod. “Let me take a look.”

Paul leads me to the front, where the Cadillac of snowblowers sits tilted on a patch of snow-covered concrete.

Stand-on, rubber track drive, probably a fifty-foot throw distance.

Overkill for residential sidewalks. Figures the Cedarwoods would buy the most expensive snowblower and then forget to put gas in it.

At least Paul cleared a portion of the driveway and made it to the front steps before the thing died.

I crouch beside the beast of a machine and remove the gas cap, tilting the whole unit slightly to check the tank.

“Yup. Empty.”

Paul squints. “That’s bad, right? Did I wreck it?”

“Nah.” It’s definitely a four-stroke. “Just needs some gas.”

Relief softens his features. “We haven’t used it much. One of the guys usually plows the parking lot, then jumps out and shovels the walkways.”

“This’ll do the parking lot. It’ll just take some time.” I pat the frame and stand. “I’ll run out and get the gas.”

“I, uh, you don’t have to do that,” he protests.

“My truck’s ready to go.” I nod toward the slice of driveway he cleared. “Your vehicles are still boxed in.”

“Good point.” He hooks his thumb toward the right. “There’s a gas station a couple miles that way. Otherwise, you’ll have to go almost all the way back to the highway.”

“Thanks.” I turn toward my vehicle. “Be back soon.”

My engine turns over without hesitation, but I let it idle for a minute. While it warms up, I shoot off a quick text to Margot so she doesn’t worry, then tap Remy’s number.

He answers on the second ring. “Jigsaw?” His voice is low and rough. “What’s up?”

“Like two feet of snow.”

He chuckles, the sound muffled by wind. “Yeah, no shit. Been plowing all morning.”

Good. “Think you could swing that plow over to Pine Hollow?”

Silence, except for the wind howling over the line. “What’s out there?”

“The Cedarwood Funeral Home.”

Another pause. “Oh.”

“I’ll pay you.”

“It’s not that,” he says quickly. “One of my neighbors is sick. I’ve been keeping their place clear. Just in case, you know, she needs to call an ambulance. Her husband’s...not doing great.”

“Shit. Sorry to hear that.”

He sighs, heavy and tired. “They were good to my grandparents back in the day. Just trying to return the favor.”

Grinder had mentioned Remy helped out most of his elderly neighbors. One of the reasons he’s got so much respect for the kid—when Grinder usually dislikes almost everyone. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Let me make a call,” he says. “I got a buddy out that way who can probably get there faster than I could anyway.”

“That’s all right. We’ve got a snowblower.”

“That’ll take forever to clear their parking lot. Hang tight. I’ll call you back.”

“Thanks.” We hang up, and I shift into Drive, easing onto the slick road, while flakes continue to fall in lazy swirls. At least the snow seems to be slowing.

Half an hour later, I pull back into the Cedarwoods’ driveway, sliding into the spot I claimed earlier—close to the house, out of the way of the plow Remy promised should be here in another thirty.

Paul’s shoveling in front of the garage. He’s actually made a lot of progress in the short amount of time I’ve been gone.

Snow crunches under my boots as I step out of the truck. The wind hasn’t let up, but the flurries have slowed.

Paul stops and waves, hurrying over to me. “That was quick.”

I pull the can out of the back. “Didn’t stop to browse. Let’s get that beast going.”

We trudge through the powder to the machine, where I unscrew the cap and tilt the gas can, steady and slow. Fuel splashes into the tank with a satisfying glug, glug, glug . Paul stands back, arms folded, watching like I’m performing surgery.

“Think it’ll start?” he asks.

“It better.” I set the can aside, prime the engine a couple times, then hit the electric start. The machine coughs, sputters, then rumbles to life like a pissed-off dragon. Runs rough. But at least it’s chugging along now.

Paul lets out a relieved breath. “Damn. I didn’t think it would be that easy.”

“Just needed to feed it.” I grab the handles. “This thing’s barely broken in.” I bet they didn’t winterize it last year, either. That’s something I can do at the end of the season.

I test the controls, adjusting the chute direction and speed. Tracks grip the snow like tank treads. Yeah, this thing’s a beast.

Before I can get started, footsteps crunch behind me. I turn to find Margot’s dad bundled up in a winter coat, holding out a pair of tan coveralls in one hand and a broken-in Carhartt jacket in the other.

“Here,” he says. “You’ve got more muscle on you, but I think these might fit.”

“Uh.” I glance down at my jeans and leather jacket, the cold sinking into my bones.

Pride begs me to refuse the offer, but he’s right.

“You’ll freeze in that.” He pushes the coveralls toward me.

“Okay.” I grab the clothes from him. “Thanks.”

He nods. “I appreciate the help. I don’t know what happened to Henry.” His frown deepens. “I hope he’s okay.”

“Maybe he’s stuck in the snow somewhere?” I suggest. “Cell service out here’s spotty. Worse in a storm. I’ve got a friend with a plow truck on the way, but I’ll finish the driveway that Paul started and work my way around the house.”

He studies me again with that quiet, assessing look of his. “Thank you, Jensen.”

I return the nod, solid and simple. No need to make it awkward.

What kind of asshole would I be if I just sat around and watched my girlfriend’s family struggle to do a task I can easily handle?

Now that it’s gassed up, I shouldn’t have a problem starting the snow blower again. I shut it off and follow Mr. Cedarwood up the front steps into the house.

Sweet, suffocating heat wraps around me as I step inside. Margot’s waiting to the side. Her dad stops to have a word with her, and she nods.

Someone laid thick, plastic runners over the carpet; even so, I don’t want to track more snow over the house than necessary. I quickly unlace my boots and pop them out on the porch, then step into the coveralls. I shrug my jacket off and Margot tugs it from my hands.

“Thank you,” she says. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“Well, I can’t sit and watch your dad and cousin do it, when I know I can help them get it done quicker.” I lean down and kiss her cheek. “Besides, don’t you and your dad have to get ready for a consultation?”

She nods quickly. “We moved the time back an hour, but yes.”

“So, you do that. And let me worry about the snow.”