“Did you do anything fun for the holidays? Go see your family?” I ask him, turning in my seat a little bit so I can have eye contact while we chat. He slides onto the stool next to me, giving a short nod to Ryan when his drink is delivered. Spinning my own beverage around on the bar top, I hum along to the music playing from the old-school jukebox in the corner.
“Fun? I’m not sure that’s a word that could be used to describe the holidays or my family,” he replies. “I did go home, yes. Hence the double.” He lifts his ball glass in the air anddrains it. I raise my eyebrows. It must have been bad to still be scrubbing his Christmas memories with drink.
“I’m sorry. You should have just stayed here, like me. Holidays alone are better than holidays with people you dislike.”
Dryden’s eyes meet mine, far too knowing. My penchant for overtalking often leads to oversharing, which is why Dryden, Ryan, Nils, and everyone else who stands close to me too long are privy to a lot of things that I wouldn’t have shared if I were able to control myself. He knows some things about my relationship with my father and has been able to infer the rest.
But, as my prickly companion has learned, being loquacious also means I’m good at prodding others to be the same. Dryden considers every single thing about himself a national-security-level secret. He doesn’t part with anything easily, and the few times I’ve been able to wheedle something out, he’d looked so immediately regretful it was almost funny. I’d expected the wordsif I tell you, I’ll have to kill youto come out of his mouth.
“Was your ex-husband there?” I ask, because even if he hadn’t wanted to share at the time, he did. I can’t unknow it. He lifts his fingers off the rim of his glass, signaling to Ryan that he’d like another. I’m going to have to drive him home.
“Oh, yes. Our families run in the same circles.”
I grimace in sympathy. I’d like to think my parents wouldn’t invite my ex-husband to Christmas. Especially if the breakup was as contentious as I suspect Dryden’s was. He’s such an ass, and so strange about letting people in. In my mind, I blame the nameless, faceless ex, unable to imagine Dryden was born this way.
“My lord, you really just say whatever pops into your head, don’t you?” Dryden comments, smirking at me. I close my eyes and push away the beer.
“I didn’t mean to say that,” I admit. He laughs. “And you say whatever pops intoyourhead, so you can’t talk. At least my thoughts are usually appropriate.”
“True,” he concedes, toasting me before throwing back his second drink. “Perhaps next year, I’ll bring you home with me, set you loose in the ballroom, and watch the upper crust crumble.”
I laugh. He makes me sound like a tornado.
“Deal. And you can come to mine.”
“Oh, now that I’d enjoy.” Dryden smiles, but it’s the sort of smile that looks more like the baring of teeth.
I let myself picture it for a second—Dryden walking through the door of my family’s house, sneer in place, and probably dressed to the nines. My father would like him on sight. Would like the clean, rich lines of him and the way Dryden acts like he’s better than everyone else. And then, the moment Father said something cutting to me, Dryden would smile, beautiful and aloof, and eviscerate him. I think I might enjoy it, too.
“It’s a date,” I tell him, clinking our glasses together.
I stay too long at the bar. Around ten, Dryden and I were the only patrons remaining. Ryan joined us, nursing a glass of water and lobbing flirtations Dryden’s way, trying to see what might stick. I can’t even blame the single beer I drank for the number of embarrassing stories I told, nor can I regret it. There’s something incredibly satisfying about making someone laugh sohard tears come out of their eyes. It wasn’t only Ryan having fun either. Even Dryden, ice king that he is, was smiling in a way that was less practiced and more real.
Now, halfway home, driving ten below the speed limit and leaning forward over the steering wheel in an effort to see better, I’m having a few regrets. At least I didn’t have to drive Dryden home, although the reason I didn’t is making me feel oddly jealous. It’s not as though I want to sleep with Ryan. He’s nice, and certainly nice to look at, but there’s nothing there beyond that. I’m not jealous of the who, in this scenario, but the situation itself. A warm bed in a warm house with a warm body for company sounds heavenly right now. I wish I weren’t as picky as I am.
“No one-night stands for Oliver, no, sir, not any longer,” I tell the empty car. Not even my dry, slightly sore throat is enough to get me to shut up.
My drive is covered in snow when I turn down it, and for one heart-stopping moment, my SUV sticks before pushing through. It’s drifts, I realize, since the roads didn’t have this much snow cover. Shoveling is going to be hell. Worse if I leave it all for morning instead of doing some now. Idling in front of my slowly opening garage, I slump in the seat and think about Nils.
His drive and walk and front steps are all shoveled. I don’t have to see it to know it’s true. He’s probably been out every hour once the snow started falling thicker, keeping ahead of the accumulation. Taking a deep breath, I drive into the garage and park, leaving it open for now. I’m going to groan about it,wish Nils were here, and get it done now. Maybe I’ll call him tomorrow and see if he’s the one who needs help for a change.
Chapter Seven
NILS
Ilose power just past midnight. The low hum that usually fades into the background seems loud when it’s gone. Loud enough to wake me up. Reaching over, I click the bedside lamp to check. No luck. Pushing the sheets back, I grab the wool socks and sweatshirt I left on the chair in the corner, slipping them on. Holding my phone, I leave the bedroom, only making it halfway down the stairs before the backup generator kicks on. I leave the lights off until I get to the main room, clicking on a single table lamp and moving to stand at the front window.
Outside, the world is white. Drifts have accumulated right to the base of the window, and fat snowflakes are still rapidly falling from the sky. Frost coats the edges of the window, the frigid air outside fighting against the warm inside. It’s a good thing I have the generator. Even with it, I might start the fire and stretch out on the couch. If I lose the backup, it’ll be nice to already have a secondary heat and light source ready.
Letting the front curtain fall back closed, I quickly get the fire started. Leaving my phone on the table, I tug on snow pants and a jacket over my pajamas. Grateful to my past self for splurging on the more expensive winter gear, I get my snow boots on and push out the front door.
Cold wind bites my cheeks and makes my eyes water. Cursing under my breath, I grab the snow shovel where I’d left it propped in the alcove next to the front door. The coastal location of Siren’s Point helps moderate our temperatures during winter—we rarely see blizzards. Most often, a couple of inches of snow falls before it turns to rain and freezes. Ice is our most common winter issue. Blizzards? Not as frequent. As I push the end of the shovel into the snow, I try and think of a time when I’ve ever seen this much of it here. My dad might remember, but I don’t think it’s happened in my lifetime. Shaking my head, I tuck my chin and get to work.
Snow, as southerners are often surprised to learn, is heavy. Particularly this type of snow—wet and thick, instead of the fluffy, soft stuff that melts away the moment the sun rises. After barely ten minutes of shoveling, my shoulders and lower back are burning. I should be lifting more from my legs, but I’m tired. Those few hours of sleep feel like nothing, and the thought of my warm bed mocks me. I keep going, though, secure in the knowledge that leaving this until morning will make it worse. It’s always better to stay ahead.
Eventually, the work heats me up enough that I no longer feel the cold. If it weren’t for my breaths fogging in front of me, I’d have forgotten the need for the jacket. Indeed, I’mconsidering taking it off by the time I’m three-quarters of the way down my drive. My back is damp with sweat, and I’ve long since removed the beanie I tugged on as I went out the door.
When I finish, I stomp the snow off my boots and stand on the covered porch, looking out over the yard. It’ll be beautiful in the morning. Hell, it’s beautiful now, the white stark against the black of the night, everything silent like the snow is a weighted blanket over the world. I slip off my boots before walking inside, carrying them with but leaving them right on the mat by the door. Snow might be pretty, but it’s a hell of a mess.
