I feel him relax, and he produces a small smile.
“Told you so.”
I throw my hands in the air with an exasperated laugh. “Here I go trying to be all nice, and you have to go and ruin it.”
He catches my fingers and pulls them back to his forearm, pressing his palm over the back of my hand to keep them there. The heat from his touch sends a direct jolt to my heart, and I grow still.
“There,” he whispers, hand still covering mine. “No harm done.”
I swallow under his gaze and the way he’s looking at me. Like he recognizes that I’m a strong, independent woman, but he still wants to protect me. An exquisite balance of respect and reprieve.
Brandon clears his throat and starts the engine.
I straighten my kelly green crewneck sweatshirt and slip Tom’s signed agreement into the purse by my feet.
Without warning, Brandon curses under his breath.
My head flies up, half expecting Tom to be approaching with a shotgun or a rusty shovel, but I don’t see anything.
“What?”
“Snow,” Brandon says.
I notice it then, beginning to fall thickly in the beams of light from Brandon’s Camaro.
“So?”
“Did you not check the forecast? We were supposed to be out of here by now.”
Nervousness twists in my stomach at the prospect of having to camp out at creepy Tom’s.
“Well, step on it, then!”
An hour later, we make it out of Shawnee National Forest, but the sign is barely visible. Snow coats the roads at an alarming rate. I breathe slowly through my nose to try to ease my anxiety.
“This is bad, isn’t it?” I ask.
Brandon clutches the wheel. “Do you want me to lie?”
“No.”
“It’s bad.” He glances at the phone screen on the dash. “But at least we have reception now if we have to call for help.”
The lights of a small town wink into view. We decide to wait out the storm at a burger joint for over an hour, but it still doesn’t blow over. With no other alternative, we head back on the road. I fiddle with the ends of my hair as Brandon tries to navigate the slick roads.
With a curse, Brandon suddenly flips his signal before pulling into the parking lot of a pint-sized motel.
I stare flatly at him. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” he says grimly, unbuckling his seat belt. “But I’d like to live to see tomorrow.”
I cringe before taking a calming breath.
Sure, this seedy motel isn’t the Four Seasons, but if I didn’t die at creepy Tom’s, I’m not going to die in a snowy ditch somewhere. And I do keep a spare toothbrush in my gym bag, which happens to be in the backseat.
“Fine.”
But as it turns out, it’s not fine.
