“What?”
“Your car keys. I need to check the engine.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Yes, I do.” His jaw tightens. “Because if your battery’s frozen, you’re stuck. And if you’re stuck, that’s my problem.”
Oh. Right.
I shift the cookie tin to my other hand and drop the keys into his palm, careful not to touch his skin, even though my hand is covered. His fingers close around my smiley face keychain in one smooth motion.
“Stay by the fire,” he orders. “Don’t touch anything.” He nods at my phone. “No photos. No posts. No exceptions.”
He’s moving before I can respond. The door opens and closes in one efficient motion, pulling cold air across the room.
I stand there, dripping melting snow on his floor and clutching the cookie tin.
The fire crackles. I move closer and peel off my wet mittens, then unwind my scarf. My coat is soaked at the shoulders. I should take it off, but I don’t know the rules here. He said not to touch anything.
Does that include hooks by the door? I have no clue, so I’d best not do anything.
Somewhere outside, the generator hums, low and steady, beneath the wind’s wail. I hug the cookie tin to my chest and scan the room again.
No photos. No clutter. Everything has a place and a label, such asBatteries. First Aid. Matches.Everything except me.
Nothing new, except…
My throat tightens, and I shove the feeling down. This is fine. He’ll fix the car, I’ll thank him by handing over the cookies, and I’ll leave. Simple.
Except my hands are shaking, and it’s no longer from the cold.
The door bangs open. Snow swirls in with him. As he locks the deadbolt into place, he shakes off the snow dusting him. Guess he doesn’t care about water on the floor.
“Your battery terminals are corroded. The alternator belt’s cracked. The coolant’s dangerously low. You’re not driving tonight. Hell, you shouldn’t have made it up here at all.”
My stomach drops. “What? But it was running fine?—”
“Until it wasn’t. You got lucky. Another mile and the engine would’ve seized.” His jaw tightens. “Who’s been maintaining this thing?”
“I… the guy at the quick lube place said it was fine last month.”
“He lied or he’s incompetent. Either way, you’re not going anywhere until I fix it.”
The floor tilts. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“But I can’t stay here.”
His gaze meets mine. Flat. No apology. “You don’t have a choice.”
My breath snags in my chest. “There has to be another option.”
“There isn’t.” He moves past me, as if already problem-solving, and his boots leave more wet prints on the wood floor. “I’ll radio the sheriff in the morning. The road crew won’t plow until the storm clears. That’s tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.”
“Tomorrow?” The word cracks.
“Yeah.” He pulls a wool blanket from a chest and tosses it onto the chair. The motion is matter of fact and competent. “I’ll get you dry clothes.”
