“Fuck,” he swore.
I twisted to look at him. “What now?”
It didn’t matter if I stood on my tiptoes on the patio or laid flat on my stomach in the foyer. We had no bars. All phone lines were dead. We had no light. No heat. No internet. I might as well stay right here and mark this as my grave.
Shuffling beside me, the beam of a flashlight was followed by sleek black boots. John’s raven hair fell over his eyes as he tilted his head to where I still lay on the hallway floor. He slid one hand into his pockets in an infuriating, elegant gesture.
“We won’t know if it’s gone through until the storm has settled.”
I rolled onto my back. “Then let’s drive until we find a signal.”
He shook his head. “I can’t drive in this storm.”
“You promised.”
“I promised to help you find your laptop, not attend your funeral.”
Like a child, I splayed both arms over my face. I didn’t move. Didn’t want to think about the consequences of being stuck here. Unable to contact Mom. Or Otis. But then, the memory of a car in a ditch crossed my mind, and I hoped John didn’t see me wince.
“I will vouch for you tomorrow. Explain the situation. Now…pancakes.”
“You want to torture me.” My stomach rumbled, but I heard the scuffing of his boots retreat into the living room.
The line wasn’t a torture device but an actual dinner invitation. He was, in fact, making pancakes. There was a lit fire,cocooning the living room in a warm glow. Candles were spread all over the place, lining the counter and shelves. John was waving with the spatula from the kitchen, doing his killer move, a.k.a. throwing a towel over his shoulder.
“The stove is gas. Luckily.”
I watched him suspiciously. “It’s past midnight.”
“You’re hungry. I can hear your growling stomach from here.”
John looked up from the pan, his brow furrowed. “You may want to put some more clothes on. The night is gonna be cold.”
After I’d put on several layers of knitwear and huddled back downstairs, the scent of peppermint tea and sweet sticky pancakes mingling with wood smoke made me almost forget we were currently in a snowed-in disaster and not in Santa’s workshop.
I’d sent several messages to Otis and Mom but kept getting rednot deliveredsigns. I even contemplated smoke signals.
John’s long legs were stretched out before him. He leaned on the edge of the coffee table, which he’d pushed against the sofa. Cushions and throws created a cocoon of warmth. John Kater had built a cozy fort.
“Come sit.” John patted the space next to him.
Even though normal-Nora doesn’t like to be coddled nor does she appreciate commands, this present Nora was exhausted, starving, and, frankly, cold.
I slung the soft blanket from the sofa around my shoulders and scooted as close to the fire as I could bear it, warming up my hands.
“I’m gonna die here,” I said while staring into the flames with half a mouthful of pancakes. “I’m gonna die here with an unsent file eating midnight pancakes and probably losing a toe to frostbite while New York Times bestselling author John Kater is most likely planning me into his next novel as the villain.”
John tapped a knee against me. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Cause that’s what you are,” I said, watching the fire until my eyes stung.
He shifted his weight onto his elbows. The lines around his mouth went taut, partially hidden behind the curtain of his dark brown hair. “That’s what I am, not who I am.”
I leaned my head against my blanketed legs, rubbing warmth into the tip of my nose. “You’re right. I don’t know who you are.”
He sat his cup on the floor. “Do you want to know?”
I turned my face away from the heat once more. “I want to know why you would go through all this trouble to help your competition if you could sit in your black marble penthouse drinking the blood of virgins from crystal glasses served by your smoke-show of a fiancée.”
