Relatable Romance that’s racy between the sheets.
The Handoff
Shattered Hearts of Carolina Single Parent Romance
A Snowed in Second Chance Romantic Short Story
Driving through a winter storm should be a breeze after landing a passenger jet in this weather. But my daughter deciding this is the best time to spread her wings isn’t on my radar. Nor is my ex-wife Laurel taking pity on me when I arrive at her house disappointed that I’ll miss my weekend with my kid.
Laurel and I promised to love one another in sickness and in health. It was the part about forsaking all others that exploded our marriage.
When I became a single dad, I accepted that I’d never change Laurel’s mind about what she thought she saw. But I can’t help wondering if getting snowed in together overnight is the second chance I’ve been waiting for to prove to my wife I gave up everything because I loved her.
CONTENT CONSIDERATIONS This book includes but is not limited to the following: divorce, death of a loved one, illusions to infidelity.
Enjoy this Excerpt from Front of the House...
“Hey, Matt.” I step behind the counter, plastering on my best customer service smile. “I’ll take over so you can go to lunch.”
“Thanks, Laurel.” Relief washes over the parts manager’s face. We both have middle-school aged daughters, but his full cheeks make him appear younger than me. “My stomach is about to eat itself,” he says, printing off the current customer’s invoice and fetching their car key fob.
Logging off the service center’s computer, he thanks the customer for his loyalty. A gust of wind pushes the door open as he sends them out into the bitter cold.
“Letting you take a break is the least I can do.” I pause, letting the next person in line know I’ll be right with them. “I appreciate you abandoning the parts department to check everyone out as their cars are ready. With the winter storm approaching, every Cass-Stanton employee has been going nonstop all day. You’d think it was after the snowfall and we were short-staffed because no one could get into work.”
“The care reps have had their phones glued to their ears since they arrived this morning. Seems like everyone in Brighton is trying to reschedule. I probably shouldn’t let on to my boss that I’ve trained my guys to wear my boots.”
“That’s a management style I approve of.”
“As long as it doesn’t cost me my job.” As usual, Matt lingers, despite him mentioning how hungry he is. “Anyhow, I don’t mind filling in wherever I’m needed.”
Matt is a person I like but avoid. He does what I ask without hesitation, and our interactions remain platonic, though I’ve caught him checking out my ass in the showroom’s reflective glass windows. If he weren’t my subordinate, I’d be flattered if he asked me out. I’d still say no, but I’d be flattered, nonetheless.
I need Matt to take his lunch break. So, I add a haughty edge to my next comment to push him along.
“If they think managing customer expectations with an approaching storm is hard, they should try working for the airlines. Shifting a tire replacement or a fifty thousand mile tune-up to next week is easy compared to getting a suntanned family of four from Wisconsin seated on the same flight home from a tropical vacation during mass cancellations.”
I always felt bad for the travelers stuck in airports in January wearing shorts and tees during white-out conditions. At least the local guy who needs new brake pads will be sitting by their warm fireplace until the snow melts. Hopefully well-fed too. As soon as the Governor of North Carolina told everyone to stay home, the grocery stores sold out of milk and bread.
“I’d forgotten your last job was at the airport. Miss it?”
Every single day. “Not in the least.”
If I told the truth, it would make me look ungrateful.
My sister Holly and I had exchanged childcare for my daughter, Emory, and her son, Bhodi, when we lived together after our divorces. She tended bar overnight at Sweet Caroline’s and I’d taken a daytime role as a customer service agent to stay with the airline. Our kids are close. So, when Holly married and moved out, she kept Emory in a pinch.
After Holly gave birth to two babies back-to-back, my new brother-in-law Cary offered me three different managerial jobs at the automotive dealerships he owns, all of which I declined. However, I still had to report to the airport during weather-related emergencies and often stayed late, covering for another agent instead of taking my daughter to the after-school activities she was excelling at. My pride was perpetuating a problem of my own making, and my family was trying to help me out. I had to admit it was unfair to rely on my sister as much as I was. The flexibility I’d get working at the dealership would benefit everyone, most especially me. Even though it was one step farther away from being a flight attendant—a job I miss and hope to return to someday.
As I’m logging onto the system, I read the name of the next customer in the queue aloud. Matt gets the signal and retreats.
An older woman sits in the waiting area, her eyes glued to the noontime newscast. The anchors are giving the meteorologist a five-minute reprieve. Grainy black and white footage of the interior of a hotel restaurant bar loops on the screen. The owner has the camera angle facing down on the cash register—probably intended to catch a wayward employee nipping singles or pouring heavy-handed. Definitely something other than what’s about to happen.
The first time the reel plays, you don’t catch the backs of the heads of the two patrons sitting at the bar. A woman has hung her brown leather purse on the tall back of the bar stool. The man has done the same with his dark blue jacket. An eerie whiteness glints off the airline wings pinned over the breast pocket as the natural gas line explodes, drawing your attention to them.
The feed loops, and you can’t help but watch the torture in slow-motion the second time. After all these years, I’m positive the broadcasters do it for effect; a “gotcha” to tug on an unsuspecting viewer’s heartstrings.
The woman at the bar turns to the man. She cups his cheek, and their lips connect. She stands. He looks up at her. The brilliant flash cuts off what he’s about to say.
The sequence replays again. The closer attention you pay, the more you see how her body bows, taking the impact of the explosion, shielding the man. All the while, the female news anchor—my favorite the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year—has been reporting on what a tragedy that day was for the Triangle community.
I clear my throat, repeating. “Mrs. Dubois?”
“That poor couple,” she tsks, walking toward me. “I wonder what happened to them?”
“She died,” I say in an even tone about my best friend, Stephanie.
I do it so well that I could be the anchorwoman.
Mrs. Dubois’s lip trembles. She’s no stranger to loss. “Oh, my. That must’ve been devastating for him.”
It was, but not the way the older woman thinks, and I don’t air anyone’s dirty laundry.
Especially not mine.
©2026 Jody Kaye, All Rights Reserved
