Zane pulled around to the small brown building behind the security booth and parked in one of two spots marked Maintenance Only. He jumped out and was about to make a mad dash for the warmth of the maintenance shed when a Mercedes drove by, slowed and beeped. He glanced over. Margery Holmes, mother of four, rolled down her window and wiggled her fingers.
“Hi, handsome.” Bright blonde hair puffed out from her head in all directions, and she smiled with the frozen look of someone with a tad too much Botox. He knew the look. Half the women in Mountain Glen had it.
“Nice legs,” she added, her gaze falling to his bare legs still clad in long gym shorts. “At the gym?”
He nodded, raised a hand in hello-goodbye and continued to the shed. She beeped again and then pulled away. Too many bored housewives lived here while their husbands commuted to jobs in cities over the mountains, leaving before the sun rose and pulling back inside the gates long after it had set.
Inside the small but neatly organized building, Zane dropped his shorts, pulled on his jeans and took a whizz before checking the clipboard hanging by the door. Tools and supplies of all kinds lined the shelves, and lawn and repair equipment filled the adjacent room. He flipped on the small TV sitting next to the coffee maker and tuned in the weather.
“Looks like no snow for at least another week,” the reporter was saying. “Temperatures will hover around twenty during the day and drop down into the single digits at night.”
He turned the TV off again. What he wouldn’t do for some good old-fashioned snow. He wouldn’t have guessed it, but living in Georgia for almost eight years had made him miss the seasons...
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