Page 51 of So This Is Christmas

He smirked. “Is it ironic that the self-proclaimed workaholic is taking issue with my, what did you call it, work-life balance?”

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “That was your word, not mine.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You used the wordworkaholicin that conversation, and I didn’t correct you.” She huffed a little laugh. It sounded delightful and girlish and utterly out of character. “I might go so far as to say it takes one to know one.”

“But—”

She turned to look out the window. “I don’t want to tell you what to do, but what happened to the getaway car? Are we going to talk about going to your mother’s while we get buried in front of Daniel Hauser’s mansion, or are we going to your mother’s?”

He tried to tamp down a smile but was not successful. “We’re going to my mother’s.”

If Cara had room in her life for relationships, which she didn’t, she would want to be with someone who was a good driver.

Mr. Benz was a good driver. As he navigated carefully but confidently along the twisty mountain road, she found herself relieved to be in his capable hands.

But also sort of... warm inside?

Competence was, in general, a turn-on. But so was, in a more specific sense, competence behind the wheel. Mr. Benz’s eyes bounced from the road in front of him to the rearview mirror to the side mirror, and occasionally, like once in every half-dozen circuits, to her. She wasn’t sure why. Because he didn’t trust her? Because he was worried he was going to kill her by driving off the road? Both? Who knew? Regardless, to watch him, you wouldhave no idea he was navigating a mountain road in the middle of a storm. He was attentive, yes—his hands were at ten and two on the steering wheel, and he wasn’t attempting any conversation—but he didn’t seem stressed. The knuckles on those hands were not white.

He really did have such inexplicably attractive hands.

Probably some of her admiration had to do with the fact that she lived in New York. She didn’t know anyone who drove to work, except some of the partners at CZT. But Cara didn’t even have a driver’s license. To be so casual handling such a machine, and in such circumstances... But in some ways, this was not a surprise. Her brief tenure in Eldovia had shown her that Mr. Benz, as much of a thorn in her side as he could be, was the kind of person who got things done. Look at how he’d flattered his way into Daniel Hauser’s house. He’d cracked Mrs. Hauser like an egg.

She shook herself and turned her attention to the snow, which was falling increasingly heavily. Even though she was in good hands—literally—she was starting to feel a niggle of worry. She was relieved when they exited the main road for a smaller one with a sign that read, “To Anderlaken.” They got stuck on the way into the village. The road into town sloped upward, and the car, which had been struggling to make it up the incline, wheezed. Mr. Benz navigated them out of a few tricky spots, but eventually, they hit a patch that defeated them, and the wheels spun in place no matter what he did. The only sign that Mr. Benz was distressed was a tightening of his jaw. “I’ll return momentarily.” He went to the trunk, reappeared with a shovel, and began making a circle of the car, looking at each tire.

No way was she going to sit in here warm and dry while he dug them out. She got out, and before he opened his mouth to issue the protest she knew was coming, she held up her hands and said, “I’m helping. No arguing. Tell me what to do.”

He stared at her for a beat before handing her a shovel. “Dig out around this tire.” She got to work, and he went back to the trunk and reappeared a moment later with a long piece of what looked like grooved rubber.

“What is that?”

“I’m not sure what you would call it in English, but it provides traction for the tires.” He placed it under the tire she’d been working on. “I think this should do it, but I have more in my arsenal if this isn’t the main, or only, culprit.” He straightened and eyed her. “Can you drive?”

“Nope. I know how to push, though.” Their neighbors at home had a junker that was always dying, and she’d been enlisted more than once to help push it to the end of the block, where, handily, there was a mechanic.

Again, Mr. Benz looked as if he was going to object. Again, she held up a hand. This time, that was enough, and he went around and got back into the driver’s seat. He rolled down the window. “All right. On the count of three.”

He counted, and she pushed with all her might. The car inched forward, and the tire got enough traction from that cool mat thing that it started moving. A spike of triumph had her pumping her fist in victory. “Go!” she shouted. “Keep going, and I’ll catch up!”

He did, and she did—eventually. He only went a little ways up the road, but the wind and snow were such that she struggled tomake her way there. He was waiting for her outside the car when she finally made it, holding the passenger-side door and looking troubled.

“I’m going to get your car all wet,” she said in dismay as he took the traction mat from her and hustled her in. She was wearing her boots, but because they were made of squishy fabric, they had been drenched by the deep snow.

“It’s not the car I’m worried about.” He turned up the heat and aimed the vents at her. After a few minutes, they were making their way along a charming village main street dotted with shops and cafés, all of them iced with dollops of snow, like someone had dropped a scoop of whipped cream on every gable. They turned into a drive next to a large building directly on the main street. It was of the same half-timbered style as many of the buildings in Witten, but it was much bigger—three stories. With the snow coming down all around, it looked like it belonged inside one of Kai’s snow globes. Given what Cara knew about Mr. Benz—the fact that the king had called him an accomplished skier, the air of old money he had about him—she had imagined him growing up on a vast country estate where he rode horses and frolicked in nature.

But she could also picture him here, in this adorable-but-enormous house in the middle of a vibrant village. The building had a name carved into the decorative stone above the front entrance, though it was snowing too hard to make it out, and it wasn’t in English anyway. Perhaps if there had been a divorce—she assumed that’s what his curt assertion that his father was “not around” had meant—this property had gone to his mother, and his no-good father was left to gad about in the countryside.

He drove around back. There were a lot of cars parked there—his family must be quite wealthy and/or be automobile aficionados. Perhaps that’s where his driving skills came from.

This did make her wonder what he had been on about with all thatPride and Prejudicetalk. He had piqued her curiosity enough that she’d bought an e-book of it and had read it on her phone. Though she saw his point about the Bennet sisters needing to marry well, she also thoughtherpoint stood. The Bennets were not poor by any stretch of the imagination. And clearly neither was he.

“I probably should have texted them,” he said as he cut the engine and leaned across her to look out her window. As on the ride from the airport, he was sufficiently in her space that she caught a whiff of that minty smell of his, though it was diminished compared to that first time—probably due to all the outside time. With the mint less in evidence, she could smell... him. He smelled like salt. In a good way—like the sea.

All right. She needed to get a grip. So Mr. Benz smelled like salt-rimmed mojitos. So what? And more to the point, salty mojitosshouldbe disgusting. “Should you call them now?” she asked, eyeing the building he was still looking at. Lots of the windows had lights on.

“No. We’ll surprise them.” A smile blossomed on his face, and it occurred to her that there were two kinds of families, those that would be happy to have you show up on their doorstep unannounced and those you really needed to call first. She had the former. He appeared to as well.

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