No Damaged Goods Read online

  No Damaged Goods

  Nicole Snow

  Ice Lips Press

  Content copyright © Nicole Snow. All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America.

  First published in February, 2020.

  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 Michelle Lancaster.

  Contents

  About the Book

  1. All for a Lark (Peace)

  2. Off Note (Blake)

  3. Winter Symphony (Peace)

  4. Bought for a Song (Blake)

  5. Move to the Beat (Peace)

  6. Sweet Refrain (Blake)

  7. Gambler’s Song (Peace)

  8. Rhythm and Tone (Blake)

  9. Play It Again (Peace)

  10. Dance to Your Tune (Blake)

  11. A Little Louder (Peace)

  12. Heart Notes (Blake)

  13. Rock and Roll Ain’t Easy (Peace)

  14. Deep Tempo (Blake)

  15. Crank Up the Bass (Peace)

  16. Stay for the Encore (Blake)

  17. Out of Tune (Peace)

  18. Camera Blues (Blake)

  19. Broken Pitch (Peace)

  20. Percussion Shock (Blake)

  21. Drumroll (Peace)

  22. It Ain’t Over (Blake)

  23. Till the Fat Lady Sings (Peace)

  No Broken Beast Preview

  About Nicole Snow

  More Books by Nicole

  About the Book

  Fearless firefighter. Mesmerizing voice. Damaged single dad.

  Stick a freaking fork in me...

  There's a reason he's called Mr. Silver Tongue.

  Blake Silverton could sweet talk an angel into sin.

  Fierce small-town fire chief. Rough velvet voice. Drop dead gorgeous.

  Don't even get me started on the tortured single dad thing.

  Wintering in Heart's Edge isn't a choice when my van goes kaboom!

  Neither is gawking at the human bulldozer who keeps charging to my rescue.

  If only we could stop butting heads.

  But I'm a healer. What's wrong with offering a grumpasaurus a massage?

  I'm hardly obsessed.

  I'm not tuning into his radio love line every single night.

  That charred lump of coal he calls a heart isn't that fascinating.

  I can handle one itsy bitsy insta-wildfire kiss.

  Those fires some arsonist punk keeps setting around town, though...

  Fine. I know I don't belong in Blake's desperado world.

  Only, he won't let me go until I'm safe.

  Some men wear Bad Idea on their sleeve.

  But sometimes the heart falls hard for damaged goods.

  Hold me.

  1

  All for a Lark (Peace)

  You know, I don’t normally question my decision-making skills.

  If I did, I wouldn’t be me.

  My dad used to call me a flower on the wind.

  Maybe I’m small and soft and fragile and have a hippie name—

  But that just makes me light enough to move with the breeze, soar high, drift into the sky, and let every gust take me to new horizons and beautiful things.

  That’s what sent me jetting out of Oahu.

  What sent me flitting through New Orleans, St. Louis, Nashville, Chicago, and lately Denver.

  What put me on the road to Vancouver, too, for my next big adventure.

  …and what’s currently left me stranded on the side of the road on a remote mountain looking out over a town called Heart’s Edge.

  Freezing my butt off, with no way to warm up except for my old clunker of a van.

  Which is currently on fire, belching plumes of thick, dark smoke up into the sky.

  Yep.

  Sometimes when you’re a flower on the wind, you find yourself adrift on a beautiful sea.

  And sometimes you land face-first in a burning garbage fire, desperately flailing to alter course but sinking deeper anyway.

  It’s my own fault.

  I’m the only one who decided I needed to go for a drive after dinner, packing up my van like I’m part of Scooby and the gang, gearing up in the Mystery Machine.

  Honestly, my ride’s probably even older than that technicolor beast in the cartoon, but it’s served me well.

  Until now.

  I’d been puttering along just fine, listening to some local radio station and this really weird little show.

  At first, I thought it was a variety show, but it turned out to be some kind of call-in advice line. The guy hosting it had a warm, kind voice, deep and sort of gritty with a weathered edge.

  He sounded like he laughed a lot. And he’d sure as hell been laughing when someone called in looking for advice on what to do if a woman caught her husband stealing her underwear—to wear them.

  He’d been gentle as he’d said, “Maybe get used to sharing, ma’am, or maybe get him his own.” I’d been able to hear the grin in his voice as he’d said it. “We ain’t quite made to fit in the front of them lacy things, and he’s gonna stretch yours plumb out. Whatever floats his boat, though.”

  Most guys would’ve made fun of the guy and his wife. Oh, poor gal, that kind of thing.

  This guy, though...

  He’d just laughed like it was no big deal, live and let live. It made me feel better even though it wasn’t even my call or my issue.

  I’d been giggling too, feeling kind of warm inside, as I’d listened to him say “Next caller...”

  But I missed out on what the call was about, because right then my van decided it was hotter for this guy’s voice than I was.

  And it just blew.

  Spontaneously combusted.

  Big old boom that split the night like a gunshot, sending smoke and plumes of flame spewing out from either side of the flower-painted hood.

  Good thing I was going slow, I guess, being extra careful with the snowy roads and steep slopes.

  Still, it must’ve been the scariest thirty seconds of my life while I wrestled the burning van over to the side of the road, grabbed my things, and scurried out.

  The funny thing is, I can still hear the radio going, while whatever’s under the hood crackles and burns.

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Advice Guy’s saying. “I mean, you ask me to pick between football and sex and UFO sightings...”

  Someone else at the station guffaws. He sounds older, heartier. “Oh, c’mon. I know which one you’ll pick, and so does everybody else. You’re dang-near the last single man standing, Blake. Everybody wants a slice of that in this town. Bet you’re getting a piece every night.”

  There’s an odd pause. Weird, heavy.

  And when Advice Guy speaks again, it’s almost...melancholy, even if there’s still a smile in his voice. “Guess so,” he says. “You know me. Real heartbreaker.”

  Ouch.

  I wonder what happened to make him sound like that.

  There’s real pain living in his voice. The kind of buried agony that has teeth.

  Pain is something I know in my line of work.

  And I know what it sounds like when someone’s got a heart that’s taken a direct hit from a sledgehammer.

  Listen to me. Sitting here worrying about this guy, when I should be taking care of myself.

  I’m a warm-weather girl. Even bundled up in a thick coat, I’m about to shiver my toes off, and the
clear night sky looks heavy.

  I need to get off the side of the road before another storm comes down.

  And, you know, before my van explodes into stabby confetti.

  I fumble my phone from my pocket with half-numb fingers and dial 911. I’m hoping I did the call routing right.

  It’s always a little iffy with the way I travel. Never know whether 911 will route to the office closest to the nearest cell tower or will try to hit the 911 for my old Hawaii zip code. I’ve never needed to test it much, except one night when I got mugged in Chicago.

  But I’m in luck because after a couple of rings, a drowsy, thick male voice slurs, “Langley.”

  I blink.

  I’m used to 911, what’s your emergency?

  But after a moment I say tentatively, “Um...is this the police? The Heart’s Edge PD?”

  “Sure is. Sheriff Langley at your service, Miss, and I’m guessin’ you’re one of the out-of-towners if you don’t know that.”

  “Yeah.” I smile wryly. “Listen, my van broke down and it’s kind of on fire—”

  “Fire? I ain’t the one you need, then, but lemme get you right on over to the main man.”

  I don’t even get to protest Wait! before there’s a weird buzzing sound.

  It’s like...the line’s not disconnected, but he’s not there.

  I wait a second, listening to the idle murmur of voices from the radio. There’s a rattling, a clicking, and a different male voice comes on the line.

  “Fire and rescue.” Deep, crisp, business-like. “What do you need?”

  Wait.

  Why do I hear his voice twice?

  The second time, it’s coming from my van in this weird half-second delayed echo.

  But I try, “Um, hi, my name is Peace and my van broke down and caught fire.”

  Now I’m hearing it again.

  The echo, only this time...

  Oh, crap.

  That’s me.

  And it’s coming from the radio inside the van.

  I’m live on the air with the advice line guy, who’s apparently also the emergency responder for the town’s fire team.

  “Um,” I fumble again, then continue, “I called the sheriff’s office and the second I said fire, he routed me to you.”

  “Where? How much fire we talkin’?” the man snaps off quietly—Blake. I think that’s what the other guy on the radio said his name was.

  His friendliness is gone, replaced by an authoritative calm. His tone eases a little knot of nerves I hadn’t even realized I was holding on to until it started to relax.

  “I’m not sure...a little flame, a lot of smoke.” I don’t like the echo of my voice coming from the radio, when I sound way more scared than I really want to be, but I’m kind of stuck here. Helpless. “I’m from out of town, and I was just driving around to check out the woods and mountainsides—”

  “Can you see the town from where you are?” he asks.

  I turn slowly, scanning. Just sky, forest, road, and a break in the trees, but no lights of the town. “Nope.”

  “What can you see?”

  I step closer to the edge of the trees, pulling my thickly felted peacoat tighter, my breaths icy on my tongue and puffing out in front of me. I squint through the narrow trunks, the spindly leafless branches.

  “Through the trees...there’s a valley.” I squint, looking down at dry slopes of red earth dotted with half-dead scrub and a dark chunk of rocky slope with what looks like the remnants of a pretty big building in front of it. “And what looks like some old, damaged abandoned place. Ruins?”

  “Paradise Hotel. Gotcha. Direction?” he barks.

  That I can answer a bit more confidently, looking up and scanning the sky. The North Star twinkles just bright past the building clouds that are gathering way too fast for my liking. But it’s still there, brilliant and white against the deep blue.

  “East,” I say.

  “Any other nearby landmarks?”

  I rack my brain, trying to remember the things I’d passed by in the shadows. “Yeah, think I passed a hunting shack on the side of the road, about a mile and a half back?”

  “I know where you are.” I can hear rapid movement both on the radio and over the phone, and on the line he goes a little distant with a murmur. “Take over, Mario. I’m heading out.”

  Then his voice growls stronger again, aimed at me. “Stay put, lady. I’m coming. Keep your distance from the vehicle in case a gas line catches.”

  I nod as if he can see me.

  Then curse myself for being an idiot.

  I bite my lip, stuffing the hand not holding my cell into my pocket, curling it together for warmth. I hadn’t brought gloves since I hadn’t expected to be outside. “Blake? That’s your name, right?”

  There’s a pause, then an oddly quiet, “...Yep. How’d you know?”

  I smile faintly. “I was listening to you on the radio before my van went boom. I just...I think it’s going to start snowing soon.”

  Another long silence passes before his crisp tone gentles. His voice is so expressive, and I get why anyone in town would tune in to listen to him. It’s like he can lead you with his voice, this slow, rolling cadence of baritone roughness that wraps you up like velvet and carries you in and out of whatever feeling infuses those rich words.

  I’m a music nerd; it’s in my bones.

  And his voice is like music, even when he says something as simple as, “What’s your name?”

  “Peace,” I answer. “Peace Rabe.”

  He lets out a soft, husky laugh, and something tightens in my chest. “Rabe? Like a rabe of broccoli?”

  “Don’t,” I groan around a laugh. “I had to deal with that in high school.”

  “Okay, Little Miss Broccoli. I won’t.”

  “You just did.”

  “Maybe,” he says, and my gut clutches up at the soft edge in that single word, almost like a sigh. “But you’re not worrying about the snow anymore, are ya?” He stops, then adds gently, “You’re gonna be okay, Peace. I’m on the way.”

  “Okay, Blake,” I answer, and even though I’m so cold my toes feel like frozen nubs, I’m freaky warm all over, too. “I’ll be waiting.”

  The line goes dead.

  I pull the phone back and stare at the screen, running my tongue over my teeth, pulling my collar up around my mouth and nose to trap in the warmth of my breath.

  My chest’s all fluttery as I listen to the last murmur of Blake’s voice on the radio. He says something unintelligible before he fades out. The other man’s voice takes over, laughing.

  I guess help’s on the way.

  And I shouldn’t be hoping the man coming to rescue me is as intense as that rolling, lyrical, perfect lion voice.

  * * *

  Oh, God.

  So he’s not just intense.

  He’s...

  No.

  Nope.

  Nada.

  I totally shouldn’t be staring at the tall man climbing out of the fire truck the way I am. Not when I’m so cold I feel like I must be blue from head to toe, and it’s starting to make me feel sick to my stomach.

  Maybe I’m just light-headed from impending hypothermia.

  I think I could live with that excuse for this indecent freaking gawking.

  It must be the real reason why I can’t take my eyes off Blake as he and two other men swing down from the fire truck with lithe, easy movements, strength in every line of them, their fire-retardant coveralls sitting on their frames with rakish ease, outlining their every movement.

  I don’t know how I’m sure the man with the dark rusty-brown hair must be Blake.

  One of them, handsome with a thick head of black Grecian curls, seems far too young to go with that voice. The other guy, sandy-haired and serious-looking and old enough to be my dad, just...doesn’t fit.

  But the tall man with the thick, gruff beard and the streaks of silver in his hair, with the blue eyes so dark they make the night look brig
ht, with the brisk moves and the quiet confidence in every step...

  That’s got to be him.

  That’s so Blake.

  He’s out here with his coveralls rolled down around his waist and tied, his tight black t-shirt straining against his chest, his biceps bulging in hard knots. He roars something to his men.

  They swing into action—hauling the heavy hose down from the side of the truck like it weighs nothing, turning the watery blast on the hood of my van. I guess it’s a good thing it’s a small fire. That heavy jet of hissing water has to come out of the truck’s reserves instead of a hydrant, but honestly I’m not thinking about logistics right now.

  I’m listening to Blake’s voice—calm, commanding, rough—as he directs his men to douse my poor rickety van until the fire simmers down into damp smoke, and sad, quiet metal.

  It’s almost like I’m not even here.

  He’s so focused on what he’s doing. Exactly why I nearly jump out of my skin when he turns his head.

  And those dark-blue eyes lock right on, capturing me in their hold like beaming spotlights.

  The red and gold flashing emergency lights of the truck play over his profile, highlighting how weathered his tanned skin is.

  Lines of age and maybe frowns, maybe laughter, trace wild history around his mouth, his eyes. He’s got cheekbones for days, a mouth like a cruel kiss, and his pulse ticks in stark highlight against his strong, firm throat as the light glides over him.

  Oh. My. God.

  He’s grimmer than I expected.

  Harder.

  An absolute stone of a man.

  That softness I’d heard in his voice isn’t there in his face. Almost like his body’s a granite vault for holding the gentleness hidden away inside.