The radio crackles. Another voice cuts in. “Whiteout on Route Seven. We’re locking the station.”
My gut tightens.
I look toward the doors.
Toward the parking lot.
Toward Rory. She’s snuggled up on the old sofa in the common room watching The Weather Channel with a cup of peppermint tea in hand. She looks cute as hell.
“Hayes,” Ash says, already shrugging into his jacket. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “I’m good.”
I’m not.
Because Rory was supposed to be at The Devil’s Brew tonight. Because she walked out of her café dressed like hope.Because she trusted someone—me, even if she doesn’t know it—to show up.
I went to The Devil’s Brew the moment Captain and I got back from putting up road closed signs at the juncture of I-70 and 91.
I cross the bay, my sights set on her.
“You okay, Red?” I sit next to her, giving her a reassuring pat on her knee.
She looks up, eyes bright. “Worried about Honey at home, but otherwise I’m fine.”
Which means she’s not.
Saxon clears his throat then. “We’re officially in lockdown, boys. Anyone not on call is bunking here.”
Rory’s mouth opens. “Wait—what?”
“Blizzard protocol,” Ash says. “Roads are impassable.”
“But I only live a mile away, I could walk,” she protests.
“Not safe for foot traffic.” Captain informs her.
Her shoulders slump.
And there it is.
Disappointment. Sharp and raw.
I lean closer. “Red?—”
She laughs, brittle. “Of course. Of course tonight would end like this.”
The words hit me like a punch.
I want to tell her everything. I want to tell her I never missed a letter. That I didn’t stand her up. That I never missedher. That every word she waited for was written with my hands shaking because I wanted her so bad it hurt.
Instead, I say, “You’re safe here.”
She looks at me. Really looks.
“That’s not the problem.”
The guys scatter, suddenly very busy with gear checks and coffee. No one wants to be in the blast radius of whatever this is.
