“Do monks usually have septum piercings?”
“Frankie. I’m on theedge.”
He rants, while I laugh and listen. It’s a bit of normalcy, but my phone battery’s tanking fast, and I cut the call before it dies completely.
“I’ll text you tomorrow, Ev,” I promise, grabbing the charger and plugging it in while I make myself a peppermint tea.
They only have ridiculous Christmas-themed mugs in the cupboard. Of course. Of fuckingcourse.
Leaning back against the countertop, I stare at the fireplace and decide a cozy fire would be heaven right now.
I set my mug down, pad over to the wood-burner, and flick through the laminated binder of instructions. Twenty minutes later, there’s a crackling fire and a warm blanket wrapped around my shoulders.
The snow outside is relentless; thick and fast and blurring the world white.
I tuck myself tighter under my blanket, and sit on the rug in front of the fire, watching the amber glow dance along the walls. For a moment, I almost feel peaceful.
Almost.
Eventually I stir, reaching for my phone to text Herb and Leah—only to find it still dead.
“What the…”
I tap the screen. Flip the charger, then try another socket. Nothing.
With a frown, I go to turn the lights on. I’d enjoyed sitting in just the glow of the fire and snow, but now realize there’s no power. It must’ve gone out somewhere between making tea and making a fire.
Maybe I should care more, but the fire’s warm, the snow’s a hush against the windows, and for the first time in days, my thoughts aren’t racing.
I close my eyes, and slowly sink back down onto the rug, unsure how much time passes as I watch the flames dance in the hearth, enjoying the heat licking my face.
My head starts to droop, and I let it, until headlights suddenly slash across the front window.
I jump as a door slams, and boots crunch against snow.
A firm knock hits the door, and I sit bolt upright, heart leaping into my throat.
“Frankie?” a voice calls. “It’s me.”
Mason.
I scramble to the door and crack it open, blinking against the snowstorm and the man standing in it. His cheeks are flushed, snow dusts his shoulders and his chest rises with every breath misting the cold.
“You didn’t check in.”
Chapter eleven
Mason
“You’d think I was stranded on a mountaintop instead of mildly snowed in,” she mutters, stepping aside to let me in.
She’s wrapped in a blanket like some kind of pissed-off woodland sprite. It's cute. Alarming, but cute.
“Hi to you, too.” I brush snow from my jacket as I step inside. My gear’s still half-frozen from the last call, bunker pants damp and boots tracking snow across the entryway.
“Your power’s out.”
“Clearly.”
