Home is Where the Heart Is — Joey W. Hill

A fender bender at a snowy intersection brings together a young homeless woman and a carpenter.

*A man's forearm captured Maggie's interest first. This man's forearm, revealed by the rolled-up sleeve of a denim shirt, showed dark hairs woven like a soft web over tanned skin. She leaned over to glimpse his face in his rear view mirror. It didn't work. He was one car up on her in the right lane, in a Dodge Ram pickup that gleamed with care and polished chrome, even through the gray sleet. The pickup put him up higher. All she could see was the reflection of the forearm in the driver's side mirror.

Maggie straightened back up in her seat and winced as the rip in the upholstery pinched her bottom. She shifted and grimaced. The light changed, but only seven cars inched through the icy intersection before the light caught her again. Maggie hugged herself, tucking her fingers into her armpits, and blew a cloud of steam toward the broken heater. Sexy Forearm was now two cars up on her right. No bumper stickers, no personalized tag, and still nothing to see except that tempting arm. She imagined Mel Gibson blue eyes, maybe Mel's jaw, too, coupled with a Sean Connery voice and Jean Claude Van Damme's body. Now that vision could replace a car heater.

She imagined meeting him in a boardroom for a one-on-one closing of a corporate merger, equal players in a game of high stakes that had gone on for weeks. There had been attraction there, yes, but they had both fought it. Now, the battle almost over, his hand rose to stroke through her hair in a way that she knew would turn into a deep plunge. His fingers would reach through her hair, find the nape of her neck and pull her forward to meet his lips. She indulged the idea, felt the meeting of lips, the solid press of a broad chest.*