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The storm is slowly closed away behind us, and when I shut off the engine, a hushed sort of quiet surrounds us.
Quiet except for the snorting from the little demon.
“This is your house,” she says quietly.
I just look at her and get out. “The garage is insulated, so if you want to camp out here and call your friend to figure out what the fuck is going on, feel free. But”—I pop open the door, allowing in a rush of cold air that cuts right through my clothes and sends her shivering again—“it’s clearly not warm.” I nod at the door to the house. “Come in when you’re ready.”
I climb out, slam the door behind me, and go to the trunk, pulling open the hatch, grabbing a couple of bags of groceries, and heading toward the house, but when I reach for the knob and start to open the door, I happen to glance back.
And she’s sitting there.
A stunned look on her face.
“Fuck,” I mutter, shoving into the kitchen and setting the bags on the counter.
I go back for the rest of them.
She’s still sitting there. Head down, shoulders slumped.
Doesn’t matter.
I load up, walk by the closed passenger side door, refusing to look through the glass as I move into the house and drop off my second load of groceries.
But when I start to turn away, start to peel off my now stifling layers of clothes in the heat of the house, some demented part of me takes over and pulls open the door. I pop my head out, telling myself it doesn’t matter what I see out in the garage.
Only…she still hasn’t moved.
“Christ,” I mutter.
I stomp back out and yank open the passenger’s side door, reaching for her.
Steve growls like the little demon he is, teeth clicking together as he lunges for my hand.
I bat him away, snag her arm. “Come on already,” I snap.
She blinks, glances up at me. “It’s your house.”
“Yeah.” I reach over her, scooping up Steve and tucking him under my arm like an unruly football as I unbuckle her seat belt. “We’ve established that.”
Then, trusting that she’ll follow since I’ve stolen the tiny demon, I turn for the house again.
Steve calms the moment I step over the threshold, nose working—and covering my arm in snot—as he takes in his surroundings.
“You pee or shit on something,” I growl at him, “and you’re out.”
If it’s possible for a dog to look at me derisively, this mutt has done it.
Calling my bluff in a second.
Little asshole.
But I just set him on the floor, let him go off and explore.
And probably chew up something valuable.
Because just like I can’t leave a defenseless woman on the side of the road, I’m not going to put a tiny demon dog out in the snow during Snowmageddon.
Evenifhe looks like he ran into a wall.
