Montana Ice

  Montana Ice

  A Small Town Romance - Book 2

  Vanessa Vale

  Montana Fire

  Copyright © 2018 by Vanessa Vale

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from both authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Cover design: Bridger Media

  Cover graphic: Deposit Photos: Ivankmit; Period Images

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Note From Vanessa

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  About the Author

  Also by Vanessa Vale

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  1

  When little girls played make-believe with their dolls, most pretended they were mommies or princesses or teachers. Had little tea parties with them, played dress-up. That was what my sister, Violet, had done with hers. Me? I played plumber with mine. I dressed my little Betsy Wets-A-lot up in a pair of gray coveralls stolen from a male test pilot action figure I'd found at the toy store. He'd been tossed naked into the back of my closet until my sister had found him and used him for the groom in her pretend weddings.

  Not only did I dress my self-wetting doll in menswear, I ran a straw down the pants leg to divert the faux pee away from her anatomically-incorrect little body. No potty for her. I’d been five and had known what I wanted to be when I grew up. I, Veronica Miller, had wanted to be a plumber. Just like my father.

  Now, over twenty years later, I'd fulfilled my childhood dream. I was the plumber I'd longed to be, working with my dad. Soon to be working on my own. One last payment to my old man stood between his official retirement and my small business owner status.

  I smiled to myself about this almost-upon-me momentous occasion while lathering my hair in the shower. I squealed and quickly rinsed out the strawberry-scented shampoo when the spray of water I was standing beneath went cold.

  “Stupid hot water heater,” I grumbled to myself as I yanked back the plastic shower curtain and stepped out into the steam-filled room. I longed to get back to my own house as my sister Violet's plumbing system needed some serious work. Even in the thick humidity, goose bumps popped out all over my body as I quickly toweled off and snuggled into my ratty, yet wonderfully comfortable, flannel robe.

  While I bent over and rubbed my wet hair with a bright pink towel, I heard something. What was that sound? Was that the front door opening? I froze in place upside-down, staring at my knees between the edges of the robe, towel tangling with my long hair. Since I was a plumber, not a law enforcement officer, I lacked the training to keep panic at bay. That hot, adrenaline-induced fear rose up inside me between one heartbeat and the next. I could have sworn the little wet hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  Help. I needed to get help, but my cell was in my purse, which I'd dropped by the front door, one room away. And Violet had no house phone.

  I stood up, flipped my dark hair back over my shoulder, held my breath and listened. Rustling and a little mumbling was all I could make out. Who was in Violet’s house? Sure, they must have a key since I hadn't heard a window break, but the only other person who was supposed to have one was Violet, and she was in Utah.

  I tiptoed over to the door, bit my lip and winced as I turned the knob and hoped it didn't squeak. I slowly opened the door as I held my breath. Peeking into the bedroom, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Barely made bed, dirty clothes tossed haphazardly at the wicker hamper. Something heavy thumped onto the floor from the vicinity of the front door, and I looked in that direction as if I had X-ray vision and could see through the wall to the person in the living room.

  I squeezed through the small gap I'd made in the bathroom doorway, afraid if I opened it any more, the old hinges would give me away. Breathing as quietly as possible, which was pretty hard in panic mode, I bent down and grabbed the first thing I could get my hands on to use as a weapon. What I held didn't register. I knew it was solid wood like a baseball bat and as good as I was going to get for protection.

  Violet's house was small, with only one floor and a scary basement I rarely visited. Living room, kitchen, bedroom and bath. That's it. Which also meant there wasn't anywhere to hide.

  For breaking and entering, the guy wasn't Mr. Stealth. It was the middle of the afternoon. He'd come in the front door and he was awfully noisy for someone intruding where they weren't supposed to be. Even if he was the worst robber ever, that didn't mean he wasn't dangerous.

  My palms were sweaty as I peeked around the doorjamb into the living room. His back was to me and he appeared to be looking down at something he held in front of him, probably his phone. It appeared he was texting, or reading one. Tall, around six feet, maybe a little more, and solid. He wore jeans and dark leather shoes. His black jacket was a lighter weight than one would expect for the dead of winter in Montana in the throes of a bitter cold snap. A gray knit cap covered most of his dark hair.

  I didn't recognize him, but I wasn't in the mood to wait for him to turn around and see me. I decided to use the element of surprise. I tiptoed over to him and whacked him with my wooden weapon. Hard.

  Thwack!

  I'd aimed for his head, but nerves and slick palms messed me up and I hit his shoulder instead. The reverberations tingled in my fingertips.

  “What the fuck?” Mr. Intruder said, his voice deep, full of surprise, the cell phone dropping to the floor at his feet. He raised a hand to his upper arm. As he started to turn to face me, I hit him again, this time on the back of the head.

  Crack!

  It wasn't the sound of his skull breaking, but my weapon instead. The wood broke into two, one of the pieces clattering to the floor.

  Intruder grunted, fell to his knees with a thunk, then fell face first onto the floral area rug in front of the fireplace, his face turned toward me.

  I stood there motionless, stunned, holding half of my broken weapon. Huh, varsity softball had paid off. It appeared I'd hit a home run. I looked down at the prostrate form on the floor. One leg moved a little, which, combined with some groaning, indicated I hadn't killed him. Even with his eyes closed, I instantly recognized him.

  “Oh, shit,” I whispered as I knelt down beside him. The thick wool of the carpet was scratchy against my knees. Why hadn't I known who it was before I knocked him unconscious? I should have been relieved an axe-wielding mad man wasn't trying to kill me, but I was too surprised instead.

  It was Jack Reid. The guy I'd been in love with in high school whom I hadn't seen in over ten years. Ten years where I'd often fantasize about him, about what could have been. I'd often dream about the moment he'd come back into my life, but this defi
nitely wasn't it. Sure, when he'd gone out with Violet instead of me senior year, I'd wanted to kill him, slowly and painfully for doing so, but I'd envisioned strangulation or a pummeling of some kind. Now that I'd possibly killed him, at least knocked him completely unconscious, with—I lifted my broken weapon—the Triple Smacker paddle from my box of sex toys for the toy party I was hosting tonight—I realized the anger and bitterness at his long-ago rejection hadn't gone away.

  How dare he barge into my life again, unannounced, when I wasn't the least bit ready for him! I wanted make-up, a killer dress, some fuck-me shoes on, my hair done, with a hot guy in love with me on my arm when Jack saw me again. To make him see what he'd missed out on. Then I'd crush him beneath my stiletto heel before my lover shifted my attentions elsewhere.

  But a ratty robe and tangled, wet hair? A sex toy paddle? Revenge and maybe a little payback would be nice, but a felony conviction for assault? Oh boy.

  Dropping the broken paddle onto the floor, I leaned over Jack and gently probed the back of his head. No brains gushing out, no blood seeping from beneath his hat. One huge goose egg of a bump though. I winced, thinking about the headache—and maybe concussion—he might have.

  Man, he smelled good. Woodsy, clean male mixed with the fruity scent of my shampoo from my hair tangled about my face. His scent was sexy in an unconscious sort of way.

  “Jack, Jack wake up,” I said, gently moving his shoulder. “Jack!” He had to wake up because I couldn't live with myself being known around town as the woman who killed Jack Reid with a Triple Smacker.

  After another groan and a few moans, he rolled onto his back, blinked his eyes a few times and stared at me. At first, unseeing, then with focus.

  Boy, even knocked practically unconscious, he sure looked amazing. Ten years had done the man a lot of good. His face was more rugged, jaw more pronounced. It could have been the five o'clock shadow at two in the afternoon that helped with that. He had a fabulous tan. The kind you got from living in Florida. Lips I'd dreamed about kissing when I was sixteen still looked appealing now. His dark hair that peeked out of his cap had a little curl. His blue eyes, even unfocused, were just as I remembered. Longing, once forgotten, flared back to life.

  He just stared at me, looking me over as if I were a space alien. A slow perusal from head to toe. I couldn't tell if he was confused or just addlepated. “Jack, say something.”

  He blinked. Smirked, but quickly winced.

  “Um.”

  Oh God, had I caused him amnesia?

  He cleared his throat. “Nice breast.”

  I glanced down at myself, one bare breast was definitely out there for Jack to see, my nipple hard. I yanked at the side of my robe that was glaringly open, my hand at my neck holding the lapels together.

  “Is this how you treat all your boyfriends?” His blue eyes had cleared, weren't so foggy as a minute ago. “A kiss hello would probably be better, although maybe that's not your way.” His gaze dropped to my chest again.

  My mouth fell open as anger flared. “You're not my boyfriend. You lost your chance ten years ago,” I said tartly.

  Jack leered. The smile he gave me couldn't be described as anything else. “You flash everyone who comes through the door, or just me?” He lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his head, winced.

  I felt my cheeks burn hot at the thought of my epic wardrobe malfunction. It was completely and utterly mortifying, and on top of that, he was being a total jerk about it. “Only ones I bash on the head first.”

  2

  Twenty minutes later, I pulled my van into the parking lot of the ER, Jack strapped into the passenger seat. It was the business van, full of tools and pipe. ‘Pete's Plumbing’ was painted across the outside in black cursive. I'd tossed on clothes—jeans, turtleneck and sweatshirt, heavy winter coat, boots and gloves. I'd tucked my snarled wet hair up under a thick wool hat so it wouldn't freeze.

  We hadn't said too much since the breast baring incident. I kept silent because I was too angry to say anything. I wanted to give him another whack for being so obnoxious. I was also embarrassed I'd had a wardrobe malfunction mid-attack, but halting an intruder had been my first priority. I'd thought about getting naked with Jack, many, many times, but that boob-flashing hadn't been what I’d had in mind. Now, I was modestly covered head to toe. Only the lower half of my face had actual skin showing.

  It was really too cold for more. It was January, it was Montana, and it was freezing. I was used to snow for months on end. I had the right clothes to prove it. I knew not to be stupid when it came to winter and was bundled up accordingly. Jack, on the other hand, looked like he’d just come from Florida. Which, he most likely had. His shoes couldn't keep out an inch of snow, his jacket was something you'd wear in May in Bozeman, not in temperatures that were stuck below zero. The hat on his head was the only smart thing he wore. Most likely he'd picked it up once he got to town. No hat like that was even sold in Miami.

  Jack wasn't talking either. He clenched his jaw tight enough to turn his teeth to diamonds as he stared out the windshield, one arm folded across his chest with his hand tucked into his armpit, the other holding a package of frozen peas to the back of his head. He looked angry—and freezing. He was being silent and moody because I'd knocked him out.

  I sighed as I pulled into a parking spot and killed the engine. “Okay. I'll take the high road here and talk first.”

  “High road?” he questioned. His voice was deeper than I remembered, but the Jack Reid of my memory was a gangly teenager.

  I took a deep breath. “I haven't seen you in over ten years and the first thing you say to me is 'nice breast.' So, yes, high road.” There was a little snark in my voice.

  He turned to gaze at me, eyes dropping briefly to my 'nice breasts'. My heart went pitter pat. Even angry, in pain and cold, he was so...Jack. I'd thought about him night after night in high school and relived the one—and only—kiss we'd shared ever since. I had to admit, the younger version of me had exceptional taste.

  I was reasonably attractive. The dates I'd gone out with in my life seemed to think so. I had stick-straight black hair that went past my shoulders, brown eyes. I wasn't short, nor tall. Five-six made me right in the middle. My weight was proportional to my height—my doctor's words. Jack seemed to find my breasts worthy of a second look, even with layers of coat and clothing on top. I had to be somewhat appealing to him as I looked like my sister—my identical twin sister—whom he'd slept with. There had to be some attraction there. Although, if we ever did end up in bed, it might actually be anticlimactic for him. Not a pleasant thought. No one wanted their first time with a guy to be 'been-there-done-that,' even though they hadn't really been there, nor done that. With me.

  “High road?” he repeated. “You hit me on the head like a woman possessed.” His voice sounded as if he were equally frustrated.

  I took another deep breath and started counting to ten. I made it to six. “Which I wouldn't have done if you hadn't waltzed on in Violet’s house. Explain to me why you were there and how you got the key.”

  “My uncle is renovating his kitchen, which he's been telling me about for weeks. But he called yesterday and told me he was sick,” Jack said, his voice bitter. “He needs my help finishing the project. Said he was too weak to supervise. I flew in from Miami this morning, took a taxi from the airport and when I got to his house, there was a note saying he's in Arizona for the winter. On top of that, the power and water are shut off because the back half of his house has been gutted.”

  Wow. His uncle really wanted Jack back in Bozeman for some reason. To lie like that was a pretty big deal. I'd be mad, too.

  “He left the address of where I could stay until that part of the renovation was complete. That's how I ended up at your place. After walking ten blocks,” he growled, shifting the frozen peas. “And he said the key would be under the doormat.”

  There was a lot for me to think through in his brief recap. First off, he had been worried abou
t his uncle. Worried enough to come back, over two thousand miles, after ten years. That said something because he hadn't been back to town, not once, since graduation.

  Second, I was the one who was preventing him from staying at his uncle's. Being the plumber his uncle had hired for the job, I’d separated Jack from his running water. When he learned about that, he would probably have a stroke. I had no doubt. No way would I tell him now. One medical problem at a time.

  My third thought was that Violet needed to move her extra key.

  And lastly, well, my last thought needed confirmation.

  With the engine off, the heat was gone inside the van and my breath came out in a white cloud. I turned in my seat, leaned one arm against the steering wheel and asked, “You don't know who I am, do you?”

  He turned his head and looked me in the eye. “Violet. Veronica.” He closed his eyes for a second and shook his head, slowly. “I never could.”

  Exactly. He never could tell my identical twin and me apart. Jack and I had hung out together our senior year. A lot. Then he got up the nerve to ask me out on a real date, not just talking in the hall, being partners in Biology.

  Turned out, he hadn't wanted to date me. He'd wanted Violet. I set him straight back then, of course. Straight to Violet, whom he’d slept with on the first date. Not that I was bitter or anything. Nope.

  “Well, I'm not going to tell you now,” I grumbled, sounding like a seventh grader. So much for the high road.