Page 9 of The Christmas Accomplice

Chapter 3

Dean is a low down, rotten bastard who never listens and doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself.

Welton’s thoughts ran on a loop as he stomped through snowdrifts, swinging his arms and bursting through the clouds of vapor as he panted from the exertion. He should have listened to Dean when they lived together and taken advantage of the fitness center in the apartment building.

What? No! Fuck Dean! And fuck this goddamn resort right up its snow-covered ass.

After they’d broken up and Welton had been reminded of this Christmas trip they’d planned, there had been a lot of text messages and emails exchanged. But in the end, Welton knew deep down in his gut it had ended with Dean telling him to take the trip and try to figure out a way to relax. One more dig, just to make sure Welton wouldn’t forget any of their arguments over the years. As if he’d be able to forget those any time soon.

But did Dean admit he was wrong? No, because Dean was never wrong. Welton was always the one who was wrong. There had never been a constructive argument with Dean. It was always Dean doing a lot of shouting and talking over him and not letting him get his say in. It had been exhausting trying to get Dean to see anything from a different point of view. Welton hadn’t been raised in a confrontative household, so didn’t have much experience with arguing.

That had changed pretty damn quick during the years he and Dean had been together.

Just thinking about it made him feel tired.

He came to a stop and looked around, not sure of his whereabouts. When he’d stomped out of the cabin after the argument, he’d veered off the paved narrow road onto a foot trail. Now, however, he stood in the middle of a bunch of trees, surrounded by pristine snow broken only by the footprints he’d left behind him. And those tracks meandered side to side so much they looked as if they’d been left by someone way too drunk to be outside on his own in such cold weather.

Or someone who’s just argued with Dean Gilbert, the master of double talk and finger pointing.

Welton grumbled curses and took the fingertip of a glove between his teeth to pull it off his hand. He dug into his pants pocket for his phone and opened the compass app. He’d always had a good sense of direction, even as a child. His parents had been so impressed his father had bought Welton a silver-plated compass for his thirteenth birthday. Welton had loved it immediately, and still had it sitting on his desk back home. Too bad he didn’t have it with him now.

Welton’s sense of direction had been another thing that always irritated Dean.

Who cared what Dean thought? Welton needed to put that bastard out of his head. Because of this, he’d taken to doubting every thought he had. He needed to calm down and get his bearings. The white snow all around and the bright blue sky were throwing off his sense of direction. Add to that the altitude and every tree looking like every other tree, and he might as well be smack dab in the middle of one of those stop motion Christmas specials by Rankin Bass.

He took a breath and slowly let it out, watching it cloud before him. The hotel employee… correction, handsome hotel employee, had traveled southeast when driving Welton to the cabin, so that meant he should travel northwest to get back to the main resort building.

Reece had been the handsome employee’s name, and he’d also had kind eyes and a nice smile.

He scowled and shook his head. No. It was no use thinking along those lines. Especially not as angry and worked up as he was at that moment.

Dean Gilbert is an infected boil on the ass of Satan.

Smirking at his own humor, Welton positioned himself facing northwest, shoved his phone into his pocket, pulled his glove back on, and set off once again. He tromped through a copse of pine trees and his passage tumbled snow off the branches on his head and shoulders and down the back of his woefully inadequate jacket, making him gasp.

Well, that was one way to cool down.

He marched on, high-stepping like an overachieving drum major from a high school marching band. Sweat streamed down his face and back, and his breath felt ragged in his throat. Maybe he’d collapse out here and die of exposure. That would teach Dean a thing or two.

Pushing through what might as well have been a wall of pine tree branches, Welton ended up on the receiving end of another minor avalanche and let out a string of curses as he stopped just on the other side to remove his glasses and wipe snow from his face. He rubbed his glasses on the leg of his jeans to remove as much of the snow as possible, grumbling the entire time. After sliding the glasses back on, he was surprised to find a group of people staring at him.

“Oh. Er, sorry?” Welton said.

“No need to be sorry,” a man said, his voice big and loud across the still and snowy field. “Come on and join the party.”

“Oh, no,” Welton said, gesturing toward the lodge he could see a short distance away. “I was heading for—”

“For fun? I’d say you found it!” The man with the loud voice approached Welton and smiled. He wore a parka with the lodge name stitched across one side and a lanyard with an ID badge that proclaimed his name was Edward Salva.

Edward leaned in and brushed snow off Welton’s shoulders.

“Oh, you don’t have to do… Okay, well, thank you for that, but—”

“I could use another person for this activity,” Edward said in a whisper that couldn’t have carried back to the rest of the group. “I need one more participant. What do you say?”

Welton made a face. “I’ve been walking a while, and I’m pretty cold.”

“I’ve got hot chocolate, and I’ll even lace it with peppermint schnapps if you stay and participate.”