The snow blows around us. "It's bad out. You should let me drive," I insist.
"I'm more than capable of driving through snow. Now, get in or I'm leaving you," she warns, then opens her driver's door, and slides into the seat. She slams the door hard.
I begrudgingly get in the passenger side, then drawl, "You've lost your manners, sugar."
"Don't call me sugar," she spouts, and turns on the engine.
Her perfume flares inside the cab. I slide the seat toward the back with a groan, confessing, "You always smelled so damn good. Are you trying to punish me more?"
She doesn't look at me, keeping her eyes on the road ahead of her, her fingers gripping the wheel as she accelerates. She orders, "Stop acting like I mean something to you."
"You do. Always have and always will," I assert.
She scoffs. "Can you stop saying stuff like that?"
"You mean the truth?"
She blinks hard, staring at the snowy road.
I turn toward her and question, "So you're never going to forgive me?" My voice is as hollow as my heart feels.
She floors it through the gate a little too fast, and the SUV skids.
"Whoa, slow down," I say.
"Don't tell me what to do," she replies and then turns the music up louder so neither of us can hear the other speak.
I turn it down. "Willow?—"
"Don't start with me, Wyatt. Just don't," she says, her voice shaking.
I freeze.
She blinks rapidly, keeping her attention on the road, and an ill feeling attacks me.
I soften my voice. "I'm sorry."
"I don't want to hear it," she says with more control.
I study her for several moments and then decide to honor her wishes. "Okay."
A long time passes. The roads are treacherous, and I hate sitting in the passenger seat while she drives. My job is to protect her, not let her navigate the snowy conditions.
Willow finally asks, "You really have no idea what Jax wants?"
I shake my head. "No. You don't either?"
"Nope." She cautiously glances at me, inquiring, "When did you talk to him last?"
The pit in my stomach grows. I grind my molars, breathing for a few moments, and then I answer, "A couple of years ago. We were up in Montana."
"And?" she pushes.
"I don't want to talk about it," I state, then turn to look out the window.
She scoffs. "You're really something else."
I look back at her. "What does that mean?"
