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The snow wasn’t just “coming down,” it was dumping. This was a legitimate blizzard. The idea of having to shovel tomorrow with a battered, middle-aged body was not a happy one.
Vonn took the water from me, helped himself to a healthy swig, then returned it to the cup holder. “Home,” he said again.
I sighed. “Turn left out of the lot.”
The man might’ve been a pain in the ass, but he had turned on my seat warmer. The radio was playing an old Nat King Cole favorite. The headlights panned over a veritable winter wonderland dotted with festive Christmas lights.
My phone buzzed with a text alert.
Michelle: How was your stint as a groupie? Did you get any of the guys naked? Never mind. Save it for brunch! Day after Christmas. Love you!
My best friend and neighbor, Michelle, always made me laugh. She was wildly inappropriate for a mother of three and a real estate agent.
Me: Not much to tell. But I can make something up over Bloody Marys. Try not to be too hungover for Christmas morning!
I stowed my phone in my jacket pocket and stared through the windshield. “You’re pretty good at handling the snow for a California guy,” I noted as Vonn expertly maneuvered around a slick corner.
“I grew up in Colorado.”
“Right. I forgot. Is that weird?” I asked, turning to him.
“That you forgot where I grew up?”
“That strangers know where you grew up.”
“There’s weirder things.”
“I can’t imagine meeting someone and having them know what I was doing ten years ago, what my favorite song is, and when my birthday is,” I mused.
Apparently head wounds made me introspective.
“Imagine meeting a stranger and being expected to tell them all your deepest, darkest secrets.”
It was a dig at me. While I was officially an administrative assistant in the local high school, I’d dusted off my old dreams of being a music journalist. A few successful if not well-paying freelance gigs had landed me the Sonic Arcade farewell tour assignment.
“Excuse me if fans want to know how you feel about breaking up a band that’s been together for thirty years.”
“Nothing’s ever enough,” he muttered, looking straight ahead through the windshield into the storm.
“You know, no one asked you to drive me to the clinic. No one asked you to take me home.”
“No one asked me to jump into the crowd to pull you out when your dumb-as-shit boyfriend left you alone in a dangerous situation either. That’s fucked up.”
It was the most emotion I’d seen out of the man in the past two weeks. He was pissed off. And now so was I.
“You seem to have unusually strong feelings about Mark. I’d ask you if you want to talk about it, but I think we both know what the answer is. Turn right.”
My sarcasm seemed to shut him up, and the silence descended.
The street practically glowed with Christmas lights, and I felt a nostalgic pang. I hadn’t put any up this year. Mostly because I knew I’d be traveling with the band for two weeks leading up to the holiday. But even if I’d been home, I still wouldn’t have done it. That had always been Ryan’s job. I’d handled the holiday decorating inside, and he’d dealt with lights and the inflatable reindeer outside.
With the kids out of the house, it just didn’t seem worth the effort.
Divorce wasn’t just one big loss. It was thousands of small ones.
“This is me,” I said, nodding at the last snow-covered driveway on the cul-de-sac. The house and land with the small barn had seemed like the perfect place to raise a family. And it had been. But now that I was the only family in residence, I felt like I was constantly trying to put on a pair of jeans that just didn’t fit anymore.
Vonn pulled up to the garage. And I tried not to think about what a pain in the ass it was going to be to shovel the driveway. Not to mention the path out back for Betty and Whinnie.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked suddenly.
“I have the house to myself. My kids are with their dad until tomorrow night. I’m going to lounge in pajamas all day with a bottle of wine and work on the story.”
The story that should have launched my writing career from freelancer to staff writer. The story that was one glaring viewpoint short thanks to a certain sexy, bearded, nameless grump.
“What are you doing for Christmas?” I asked as the house finally came into view.
He pulled up to the garage door and turned off the engine. “Guess I’m watchin’ you drink that bottle of wine.”
“What?”
He released his seatbelt. “What’s your garage code?”
“Four-four-three-three. Can we go back to the part about your Christmas plans?”
“Missed my flight. Airport’s closed. Crashin’ with you tonight.”
And then he ducked out of the vehicle, leaving me open-mouthed and staring.
