Page 32

He gives a dry laugh. “Kilovac must be a fucking delight at Christmas.”

“He’d take a bullet for those closest to him.”

“Not gonna shit-talk your friends.”

“Really?”

“Really.” We turn the corner. “The apartment is just a block up.”

I lean forward as we get closer, “Does it happen to be the place with⁠—”

He sputters curses under his breath when he sees the dozen or so people clearly trying to act as if they belong there, at this hour, in this weather. “Change of plans. We’ll head to the lake house.”

As they leave the city, the snow comes down even harder. The Mercedes holds the road like it’s glued. Rez drives steady, patient—slowing before curves, reading the road like he reads the ice.

It’s quiet, but not awkward, the nice, comfortable kind, you could fall asleep in.

When I lift my phone again, his hand comes out, palm up.

“Give it.”

“You’re driving in a blizzard.” I huff.

“It’ll say the same thing it said three minutes ago. Hand it over before you give yourself a worse headache.”

I pass it to him, and he slides it into the console. “Check in the morning. They’ll have their shit together by then. This isn't Chicago's first snowstorm.”

My eyes grow heavier and heavier as the miles pass, but I don't fall asleep. I like this dance we’re doing. Him glancing over at me, me feeling his eyes, and glancing back at him. No words, not even music in the background, just this.

He turns onto a long gravel drive flanked by pines, their branches heavy with snow. The house emerges from the storm—a low silhouette of dark timber and glass, stark and private against the white. He pulls into a garage that smells of gasoline and concrete, crowded with a matte-black sports car, a wall-mounted television, a snowmobile, an ATV, and piles of hockey gear.

I slide out as he grabs my bag from the back seat, then my carry-on from my hand. “You pack light for someone who lives overseas.”

“That’s because half my wardrobe’s still at Lenzin and Hildy’s.”

He shakes his head slightly, already moving toward the door.

Inside, we both kick off our boots in the entryway and walk down a corridor into a living area, with a floor-to-ceiling, two-story fireplace that’s built between two windows of the same height.

“Guest room’s up there.” he tilts his chin toward a floating staircase. “Bathroom’s attached. Kitchen’s full if you’re hungry.”

“I’m fine. Thanks.”

He hoists my bag again and takes the stairs two at a time. I follow, one step at a time.

The room was spare and clean—king bed, pale linens, nothing on the walls. He sets my bag neatly beside a dresser.

“Get some rest. We’ll deal with flights in the morning.” I nod

He pauses in the doorway. “You need anything?”

“No. I’m good.”

“I’m right on the other side of the stairway.”

Then he is gone.

I shrug off my coat, sit on the edge of the mattress, and finally check my phone. No new emails from Lufthansa. One text from