Jagger whistles. "Damn. Who did they get into it with?"
"I don't know. Honestly, I don't care. But Danny won't wait forever before he pulls the deal off the table, so now I get to drive through a snowstorm on Christmas. So if you'll kindly move." I flit my fingers in front of him.
He crosses his arms. "Think again, Willow."
"I don't have time for your games, Jagger," I scold, and try to step around his muscular frame.
He steps with me, creating a wall I can't escape.
"Jagger! This is serious!"
His eyes turn to slits. "How much wine have you had today?"
I freeze, think back, then wince, admitting, "A lot."
Arrogance floods his expression. "That's what I thought. You shouldn't be behind the wheel, especially in this weather. I'll take you."
"You've been drinking too," I point out, but I know he's right. I shouldn't be driving with or without the freak blizzard conditions we’re experiencing.
"I had two beers today. All day. Haven't drank since dinner," he claims.
I reach up and touch his forehead. "Are you feeling okay?"
He chuckles. "Yes."
I peer closer. "Why haven't you had more than that?"
"None of your business. But you can thank me for leaving the warm house to help you save your ass." He smugly grins.
I tilt my head and glare at him.
"It's Christmas, so you have to be nice," he taunts, then grabs my bag, tossing it over his shoulder.
"Fine. Let's go," I mutter, then duck past him and jog down the stairs. I reach for the hooks, tug my coat off one, then yank open the front door.
A chill wind slices razors across my face. I jerk my head backward.
"Put your coat on, Willow," Jagger orders as he puts the cash down and grabs his jacket. He slips into it, reaches for the bag, and ducks out into the snow.
I obey, then follow him, fighting the flakes slapping into me.
He opens my door and then races around the truck.
I pull myself up into the cab and shut the door.
Jagger slides inside beside me, turns on the engine, then picks up the snow brush. He gets out, scrapes the ice off the windows, then gets back in. He accelerates down the driveway, gripping the wheel and asking, "What was the fight over?"
"How do I know?"
"You didn't ask?"
I huff. "No. When the sheriff told me I could pony up sixty grand or have my riders charged with disorderly conduct or possibly assault and battery, I didn't decide to have a gossip session about why they decided to be morons on Christmas."
"Touché," Jagger offers, then directs his concentration on the barely visible road.
"It's really bad out," I state, unable to see anything but the huge, wet flakes slamming into the windshield.
"Sure is," Jagger replies, then turns on a country music channel playing only Christmas music.
