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“Mm?”
“You’re not happy,” Noelle says again. Right. Yes. “Usually, after these meetings you’re all arrogant and puffed up. Ready to make some rich businessman cry.”
I rub my jaw, the day’s stubble rasping against my palm. My coat collar is turned up against the cold, but the wind slips inside my layers, chilling me from the inside. The sky is getting darker, clogged with black clouds. “Maybe all this festive bullshit is dampening my spirit.”
Noelle hums, genuinely sympathetic, and hooks her spare arm through mine. The wind gusts so hard, I have to hook her closer to keep her from staggering off the sidewalk.
When did the weather turn so badly?
Are we going to get home?
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
We can’t linger here. The diner closes in a few hours, and then we’d be screwed.
Noelle squeezes my arm, not bothered by the gathering storm. I suppose she trusts me to keep her safe—an idea that is equal parts satisfying and alarming. “Why do you hate Christmas so much, anyway?”
“None of your business,” I rasp. And I’m being rude, being awful like always, but my fingers are clumsy from the cold and I’m fumbling for the car keys, marching us closer to our vehicle. Snow has already gathered around the tires, and there’s a lump of dread in my belly.
This does not bode well.
Need to get her inside. Need Noellesafe.
I wrench the passenger door open with my heart in my throat. “Get in. And don’t spill coffee in my car.”
Five
Noelle
Idon’t watch many disaster movies. I’m too much of a wimp, and I cringe when anyone gets injured on screen. So I don’t have much to compare this sudden storm to, but in my mind, it’s like some B-movie blizzard thriller—one where the lead actors get trapped in a car at the side of the highway, and have to rely on their wits to survive.
Not good. I don’t have any wits! Not the kind you need to survive a blizzard, anyway. Because it wasn’t so bad as we left Aspen Ridge, just a few snowflakes and cold wind, but after forty minutes of creeping along a whited-out highway, I’mreallywishing we holed up in that diner until this storm blew over.
“Are we going to die?”
Reid is hunkered over the wheel, stiff with tension. “No.”
But it’s crazy out there, thick snow buffeting the car so hard it rocks, the twin lights of other vehicles nothing but dim, hazy orbs as they creep past in the other direction.
We’re inching forward, headlights on, wipers in a frenzy. My teeth chatter, either from nerves or the cold or both.
“We should have stayed in Aspen Ridge.”
Reid looks pained. “I can’t turn back now.”
“Can we stop somewhere?”
We’ll have to, right? We can’t inch our way back to the city throughthis.
Reid’s mouth flattens in a line, but he nods. “I’m going to take the next exit. There must be some farmhouse we can shelter in until the storm passes. With any luck, we’ll still be home tonight.”
“It’s like the universe is conspiring against us,” I say as our car drifts off the highway, creeping down the snow-battered exit. And I’m just rambling from nerves, fidgeting in my seat, but Reid gusts out a sigh.
“Hardly.”
“No, I’m serious.” Okay I’m not, but teasing Reid always makes me feel better, and I’ll take any distraction from this life-or-death storm. “Maybe the gods don’t want you to escape the Christmas cheer, Reid Merryweather.”
“The gods can eat shit,” he mutters, turning the wheel and guiding us gently around a bend.
