“Look,” I finally say. “I know I promised I’d take you to Stowe and you want to get to your mom, but that was before the freezing rain came on the scene. I’m not sure I can get you there safely and, even if I could, it would probably be tomorrow before we get there.”
“I agree,” he says, and I can hear the tension in his voice. “So, what are the options?”
“Well, option one is you tell me you’re not going to pay me because I didn’t get you to Stowe, and I’ll leave you in the next town. There’s a gas station that’ll probably still be open. I’ll give you twenty bucks for food and a quarter for the pay phone.”
“Do you still have working pay phones around here?”
“Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in real life, so probably not.”
“In that case, what’s option two?”
“You promise you’ll still pay me and I take you home with me.” I don’t take my eyes off the road, but it’s impossible to miss the way his head whips around. “Okay, that sounded bad, but before you jump to any conclusions about my intentions, my family owns an inn and I run it for them. You can spend the night now that you know your mother’s okay, and I can get you the rest of the way to Stowe as soon as the roads are clear.”
“And you’ll add the cost of the room to my tab?”
“Of course.”
“Spending the night at an inn sounds more appealing than spending it in a gas station or a ditch—or worse—so I’ll take option two.”
Relief rushes through me, and I exhale slowly. While he’s buckled into my passenger seat and therefore doesn’t have a lot of say in where I drive, I’m thankful he’s willing to roll with the change in plan.
Two miles later, I drop speed—not that I had much to start with—and take the slowest right turn ever onto the road that’ll take me home. The state plows don’t maintain it and it’s been a while since a town truck has gone through. But there’s less traffic on it and the accumulated crusty mix of snow and slush gives the Jeep’s tires something to grab onto. As long as I take it easy, we should be okay.
After a couple of miles, he takes the lid off of his coffee to get the last drops from the cup and then sighs. “This isn’t some kind of spur-of-the-moment plan to kidnap me and hold me for ransom, is it?”
I can hear the humor in his voice, so I give him a fake and highly exaggerated offended look. “Sir, I’ll have you know when I kidnap billionaires, I plan that shit.”
“Just in case you change your mind, I’m allergic to the adhesive in duct tape.”
“I have zip ties in my glove box.” I actually do, since my dad thinks everything can be fixed with duct tape, WD-40, or zip ties. He’s not wrong. “Kidnapping you for ransom would be complicated, though. I have nobody to send the ransom demand to. Your assistant’s getting married and it would be mean to send it to your mom after she hurt herself on vacation.”
“There’s all that contact info on the website,” he reminds me, and I laugh.
“That’s true. I could send them an email through the contact form with my address and cell phone number so they know how to get me the money. I’ll just include one of those notices at the bottom telling them the information is confidential and can’t be shared.”
“That’ll work. Nobody ever ignores that notice.”
I laugh and then take a sip of my coffee. It’s cold because I’ve been clutching the steering wheel instead of drinking it, but at least I still have some. Visibility sucks and it’s slow going, so cold caffeine is better than none.
“So where are we going, anyway?” he asks. “Where’s home?”
“Charming Lake. It’s not much farther.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No really. Maybe five more miles.”
“I mean about the whole Charming Lake thing.”
“Oh, yeah. It’s corny. But in the late 1800s, a rich guy brought his wife up to the White Mountains by train and there was a side trip to the lake. She said it was the most charming spot she’d ever seen, so he bought all the land and named their fancy summer house the Charming Lake House. Then he lost all his money and bits of land got sold off. A small town grew, but everybody still called it Charming Lake.”
“That is corny.”
“Wait until you see our Christmas decorations.”
He groans, and I’m not surprised he’s rocking that whole Scrooge vibe. The man is a billionaire, after all. He probably spends his holiday in his countinghouse with his stacks of gold coins, fuming because his staff has the audacity to want to be with their families.
Chapter Four
