Free Sweet Memories by Nicola Starks

Snow drifted from the leaden sky, huge flakes splattering against the windshield like squashed bugs. Terrific. This day just kept getting better and better.
     

     
    It never snowed in Georgia. Well, almost never. The thought of balmy days lounging beneath a magnolia tree had been the main reason Candy Wright had deserted the slushy streets and frigid temperatures of Manhattan to spend the holidays with her old college roommate. That and the fact that she’d been forced to close The Wright Way, her advertising agency, for seven excruciatingly long days. When she’d suggested forgoing the traditional week off, her senior staff assured her morale would not be improved by such an action. If their incredulous expressions were any indication, the result would be a full-blown insurrection.
     
    She glanced down at the glowing gas pump on the gage of her rental sedan and bit her lip. If she didn’t stop soon, she’d find herself stranded. Up ahead, the vague outlines of buildings appeared through the gloom. Thank heavens. It didn’t look like much of a town, just a wide spot in the road with a gas station. Maybe she could get a cup of coffee while they filled her tank. Both she and the car needed fuel for the drive ahead. She pulled up before the pumps and opened the car door. A gust of cold wind, damp with snow, slapped her in the face. Huddling into the soft folds of her cashmere sweater, she hurried across the oil-stained pavement, detoured around a big yellow tow truck parked smack in front of the building, and entered the convenience store attached to the open garage bay.
     
    Bad coffee beat no coffee at all.
     

     
    The swinging door slapped shut behind her. A dark haired, pimple-faced teen sat on a stool behind a counter cluttered with racks of candy bars and bags of chips. She headed for the coffee maker and poured dark liquid into a Styrofoam cup. Adding a packet of sugar, she carried it to the counter.
     

     
    “Can I pay for this with my gas?”
     

     
    The boy snapped his gum. “Sure, but the pump ain’t runnin’.”
     

     
    Taking a deep breath, she held back a sharp retort and spoke in a level voice. “It will be as soon as someone pumps my gas.”
     
    “Lady, we don’t pump the gas. You do.”
     
    Every other gas station she'd stopped at in small towns provided old-fashioned full service. Why did this one have to be modernized? Maybe she could sweet talk him. “It’s snowing.”
     
    “Yep.”
     

     
    She took another breath. The kid probably wasn’t a Mensa member. “Surely someone here can pump my gas. For a tip?”
     
    He snorted. “Ain’t no one here but me and Mitch.”
     

     
    It seemed obvious the boy wasn’t going to get off his butt. “Maybe this Mitch person can do it.”
     
    Behind the teen, the door opened, and a man stepped through from the garage bay. He reminded Candy of the guy on those old Marlborough billboards, broad shoulders beneath a denim jacket and long legs encased in faded jeans. Little lines
     

fanned out from eyes the color of a summer sky. His hard jaw, covered with a day’s growth of stubble, was set at a stubborn angle. Firm lips curved in the barest hint of a smile as he regarded her from beneath overlong sandy blond hair. She guessed he was in his early to mid-thirties, maybe a couple years older than she was. A hottie to be sure, but as different from the men she occasionally dated as a no-tell motel was from the five star accommodations she favored.
     
    “Did I hear my name?”
     
    The boy grinned. “This lady, here, wants you to pump her gas.”
     

     
    Candy watched his gaze skim over her, from the top of her mink brown hair pulled back and fastened with a gold clip, down the length of her moss green sweater to the short skirt beneath, ending with a study of her black leather boots with three inch spike heels. He rolled his eyes.
     
    Angry heat crept up her neck. Turning on her heel, she spoke over her shoulder. “Forget it. I’ll