Thanks to Twilly for pre-reading this on short notice!
SM owns all things Twilight. Everything else is mine, including any mistakes.
Please to be enjoying Snowplowward. :D
Chapter 1 - Inches
"Oh, fuck off," I mutter at my alarm. Hitting snooze brings the sweetest kind of relief, and I sink back down into the warmth and softness of my bed.
After the third snooze alarm goes off, I finally peel the covers off, shivering as I shuffle to the bathroom.
The snooze button was my best friend half an hour ago, but now I'm rushing to get going. I'll be right on time for work as long as I can find something clean to wear and don't spend too long in the shower.
I know it's cold as fuck outside, so I throw my heavy coat and beanie on, wrapping my scarf around my neck just before stepping out the door.
Into at least eight inches of snow.
"Noooooo," I whine. Turning around, I head back to my room and grab an extra pair of jeans, tucking them inside my coat. A rummage through my closet yields a pair of boots that won't be quite high enough to keep the snow out. Hitching my scarf high enough to rest on the bridge of my nose, I grab my ice scraper out of the entryway closet and open the door again with a resigned sigh. I'm not even going to bother calling work. I know they'll be open. Asshats.
Both of my roommates' boyfriends spent the night last night, so I parked on the curb, not wanting to block them in. "Fuck me." Trudging through the snow, I mutter under my breath, cursing my roommates and their healthy sex lives. Mostly because of the car situation, but also because it's been so long for me, I'm convinced my hymen is growing back.
Once I'm halfway down the driveway, I hear the rumbling engine of a truck coming up the street. "No, no, no, no, no." It's a plow. And he's going to fucking bury my poor little car.
Sure enough, as I look on in horror, the red truck cruises right on by, piling a mountain of snow up against the driver's side door of my little Honda.
With a frustrated scream, I launch my ice scraper at the truck, fully expecting to miss and so pissed I don't even care that I'll have to go retrieve it from a snow bank. My eyes widen when it ricochets off the back window and the truck's brake lights glow bright red in the dull morning light.
"Oh, shit," I mutter, looking around for a place to hide, which… yeah, isn't happening. I'm past the boys' cars, and the driver is already out of his truck and looking, or more likely glaring, right at me. He inspects the side of the truck and then shakes his head, looking around for a moment before bending down to pick up the missile I launched at him.
As he walks toward me, I inch backwards. He's tall and bulky, with a beard covering the lower half of his face. Intimidating.
"I believe this belongs to you?" He's close enough now to hold the long scraper out to me, but he keeps closing in on me. His voice is gruff, and I take another step backward, my ass meeting the trunk of Ben's snow-covered car.
Thank God I grabbed extra jeans.
"Y—yes." Dammit. I didn't want my voice to shake like that, but it is about ten fucking degrees out here, so I guess it was inevitable.
"You wanna tell me why you threw it at my truck?"
"Uh…" I can see his eyes now. I can't place them, but they seem familiar. Deep forest green. Angry.
"You scratched the paint on the side of the bed."
"I'm… sorry." I'm lost for a second in his eyes. Framed by thick, dark lashes, they narrow slightly as he scratches at the scruff on his face and clears his throat, breaking my daze. "No, wait. I'm not fucking sorry. I need to get to work, and your stupid plow just buried my car under eight thousand feet of snow."
His voice sounds smoother when he speaks again, and he lifts his eyebrows at me. "You shouldn't have parked on the street with so much snow comin'." He shrugs.
Adjusting my scarf to keep my face half-covered, I roll my eyes. "Well, obviously. But the stupid weather guy is almost always wrong. Seems like every time they call for eight to ten inches, all we get is two or three."
A smirk pulls at one side of his mouth.
Amusement is all over his face. "Nothing. Just… You seem disappointed in the usual lack of... inches."
Narrowing my eyes at him, I fight back a snicker and my knee-jerk response, which is to say, 'that's what she said,' and instead say, "Are you serious right now? I don't have time for this. I'm already gonna be late as it is."
"You were really gonna drive in this?" he asks me.
"I am gonna drive in this. If I can unearth my car, that is."
We're standing about a foot apart on the snow-covered driveway, and an intense shiver runs through me. Whether it's from the way his eyes study me or the cold, wet snow saturating my jeans, I'm not sure.
"You should get back inside. I'll shovel you out." He turns back toward his truck, adjusting his sock cap and pulling gloves out of his jacket pockets.
I tilt my head as he walks away.
His ass doesn't look half bad in those jeans.
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