“A helicopter wouldn’t come in this storm. Can’t land in these conditions. Besides...” He looks away. Something flickers across his face. Guilt? “I fired the team responsible for the helicopter.”
Of course you did.
“So I’m stuck here.” It’s not a question. “With you. For how long?”
“As I already said, until thefuckingstormfuckingbreaks and thefuckingcommunications arefuckingrestored.Capeesh?”
I want to scream.
Or cry.
Or both.
Instead, I just stand there, hugging myself, staring at this man who twelve hours ago I thought was my rescuer.
“The guest room is freezing without heat,” I say finally. My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. “But I’d rather be cold than stay down here withyou.”
“You go ahead and do that,” he taunts.
I turn and walk away before he can say anything further.
Before I start crying.
Before I have to face the fact that I’m completely, utterly dependent on someone I morally despise.
Someone I was starting to actually like.
Worst Christmas Eve ever.
The guest suiteis a lot colder than I remember. My breath mists in the air as I close the door behind me and slide down to sit with my back against it.
I’m still wearing his hoodie.
His Columbia hoodie that smells like him.
Like the man who tucked me in last night and pressed a cool cloth to my forehead.
The man whose company poisoned my grandmother’s village.
I pull the hoodie off and throw it across the room.
Then immediately regret it because now I’m super cold and have nothing but my still-damp field gear.
Why hasn’t it dried yet??
Oh.
Probably because of the blizzard.
Winter storm equals high humidity.
Well that’s perfect.
Just perfect.
You’d think the raging fire going on in the great room would help with that.
I sigh.
