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Didn’t bother me at all. I joined the Army to escape my demons, and the Army just gave me more. I learned I’m not cut out for people. Except for the McIntosh family. We have a bond.
Had a bond. You broke it.
That. Fucking. Voice.
I sigh and get up to pour another cup of coffee. Check the forecast. It’s getting worse now.
Back at my computer, I see a text message from none other than Dan’s wife, Susan.
I’m so sorry that Neely’s crashed your Christmas Eve of Solitude! We were out caroling when she called about the car. I just tried your phones and couldn’t get through. The storm is nasty.
Alarm rises as I reach for my phone. Susan’s right. The phone lines are having trouble connecting. I try Neely next, with the same amount of luck.
Why would Susan think Neely is here?
Neely, nineteen and a half, and all grown up in so many ways. But she still lives at home, and her parents worry.
I worry, too. From afar.
I grab my flashlight and head down to the ground floor. I’m wearing a heavy wool sweater and a similarly thick hat, but I still grab my parka before ripping the door open, hoping to find the McIntosh girl on my doorstep.
I don’t.
Fuck.
I can’t text Susan back and tell her I don’t know where her daughter is. I pull the parka on and stalk down the path. My lighthouse sits at the top of a hill with a line of trees at the base. On the other side of that. . .
Neely’s new job. Of course, I know she’s working there. I greedily consume all Neely updates from her parents and her social media accounts.
If her car broke down, she should have gone back to work and waited there. It’s not safe out in the storm—and she’s not safe with me, either.
The same moment that dark thought ripples through my mind, I see her stumbling toward me.
I shout her name, and she lifts her bowed head, the hood of her jacket flipping off. Even at this distance, I can see her face is twisted from pain or maybe the cold. And then her foot wobbles beneath her—is she wearinghigh heels?—and she falls, landing on her ass and then going prone on the ground.
Taking off at a run, I get to her side in ten of the longest seconds of my life.
My horror increases as I realize her legs are basically bare beneath her coat. She’s wearing tights and heeled boots, and I’m guessing some kind of too-short, inappropriate for the weather dress.
I yank off my parka as I bark her name.
She doesn’t respond.
I lift her up like she weighs nothing and wrap her lower body in my jacket. Her hands flop against my chest, and those are bare, too.
“When you wake up, we’re going to have a long talk about weather-appropriate clothing, young lady,” I mutter to her as I march back up the hill. My pulse is pounding erratically in my chest—and not from the effort of carrying her.
That wasn’t hard at all, except for how right it felt to cradle her in my arms.
You sick fuck. She’s barely conscious, so I can’t disagree with the voice in my head. I am a sick fuck when it comes to Neely. I have no right to the thoughts I’ve entertained, the desire I indulge in during the darkest hours of the night.
When I arrive at the lighthouse, I have to shift her in my arms so I can open the door, and her jacket bunches up. My hand tightens down on her thigh, practically bare in only a thin pair of tights, and she whines at the contact.
If she’s gotten herself frostbite, I will—
Do nothing.
I’m not in charge of her; I’m not her parent. I’m just a guy with opinions about how a girl should dress. Though I’m a social hand grenade, even I know it’s not cool for an old man like me to have opinions about how she should dress.
