Perfect Song (Mason Creek Book 2) by Lauren Runow (christmas read aloud .txt) 📕

I shake my head. “No, he wasn’t performing. He works with Beau, Anna’s husband, so he came over and said hello. We hung out for a bit.”

“Interesting. I’ve never seen him just hanging out. But I guess I don’t go there much anymore.”

I flip open the newspaper, smiling at how small it is compared to The New York Times while I think about her words, knowing Anna said the same thing about him.

As she sets a plate in front of me, she says, “What’s the plan for today?”

“Kylie, my friend I told you about from New York, is sending my mail here. I figured I’d head to the post office to get a temporary change of address. I hate doing that kind of stuff online, and the New York post office was way too busy. Do you mind if I borrow your car?”

“Of course. Your dad will be at work all day, and I have no plans, so go right ahead.” She walks around the counter with her own plate. “You know, maybe we should go look at cars for you today. If you end up staying, you’ll need one.”

I chuckle under my breath. She’s so right. I haven’t had a car since I moved to New York. I didn’t need one there, but here, besides borrowing my mom’s car, the only way to get around is to hitch a ride from someone you know or ride a bike because public transportation is nonexistent.

The question is, how long will I be here? When I consider going back, I still get sweaty palms, and my stomach turns as flashbacks of that night rock my soul.

But when I think about staying here, all I can wonder is, For what? My life is in New York. My job is in New York. They are letting me work remotely now, but for how long?

As I look at my food, I’m suddenly not hungry.

My mom comes over and rubs my back. “Come on. You have to get some food in you. I didn’t mean to bring anything up. There’s no hurry to make any decisions.”

I smile and lift my fork, forcing myself to take the first bite, which is always the hardest.

Driving back from the post office, I’m flipping through the stations on the radio. I forgot how much country music is played on these stations. I’m about to turn on the Spotify playlist from my phone when I hear a loud pop.

“Shit!” I call out to no one as the car starts to vibrate and there’s a loud thud, thud rattle coming from outside my car.

It takes me a second to realize I have a flat tire, so I pull to the right as fast as I can and park on the side of the road.

My heart is beating like a machine gun. Makes sense since that popping sound reminded me of actual gunfire.

I run my hand over my forehead and down to my chest, catching my breath. My hand is still a little shaky as I lift my phone and call my mom to explain to her what happened. Not sure how she can help me since I’m in her car, but I’m not sure what else to do.

“Oh, sweetie. I hope that didn’t scare you too much. Don’t worry; let me call for a tow truck. Where are you?”

I look out the window and rub my fingers over my cheek. “I’m on East Old Bridge Road. Right past the market.”

“Just stay put, and someone will be there to help you.”

We hang up, and I hop out of the car to inspect the damage. The tire is as flat as a pancake. Using my hand to block the sunlight from my eyes, I look up and down the road. It’s barren and eerily quiet.

It’s a short walk to the market, so I decide to head that way to grab a drink instead of waiting like a damsel in distress. Plus, it’s a nice day out, and I don’t mind as I could use a bit of fresh air right now.

At the market, I grab an iced tea and am checking out when I see the tow truck passing by. I pay quickly and head back out into the sunshine. I jog to catch up to the truck that’s now parked in front of my car.

“Hey, thank you so much for coming so fast,” I say, waving to the driver who is opening the door to the cab.

My jog comes to a stop when I recognize the man stepping out of the truck with a clipboard in his hand and a devilish grin on his face, which I’ve been thinking about today.

What are the odds that Tucker Simms is the man coming to my rescue?

“Justine?” he asks, looking at me like I’m a mirage and then glancing down to his paperwork. “You’re Kathy and Milt Samson’s daughter?”

“That’s me. I forgot you said you worked at Bumps and Dents.”

“Yep.” He points to my mom’s car. “You’re lucky you didn’t dent the rim with that flat. Were you riding it for a long time?”

“Not too long. Can you fix it?”

“Should be easy enough.” He walks to the trunk. “Open this thing up. Let’s get the spare out.”

I hit the button as I walk toward him. He pulls the cover off the hidden tire and yanks it out. I’m not going to lie; the way his arms tense and his veins pop as he lifts the tire definitely catches my attention.

Even when he places it on the ground and rolls it to the back, his arms continue to hold my thoughts. I don’t know why I’ve always found a man’s arms sexy when they show a strength to them, proving that they work for a living and aren’t afraid to get dirty.

As he searches around the trunk, I lean in, curious about what has his attention. “Are you missing something?”

He stands up straight. “These wheels require a lock before you