We’re less than an hour from the town north of Boston where the market is being held when the snow falls in fast, heavy clumps, decreasing visibility. It’s nearly a whiteout.
“Damn,” he mutters, pointing ahead. “They’ve got every lane blocked up there.”
I lower the volume on the book. “What?”
The car slows to a stop as the one in front of us U-turns from the police cruiser and flashing caution signs. Cole lowers his window. The officer waves to the blockade.
“Sorry, folks. Road’s closing down. We’re asking everyone to turn around and get to safety from the storm. If you’re comingfrom anywhere beyond fifteen miles, I recommend finding accommodations for the night until this lets up.”
“We only have a bit further to go to our destination. There’s no way around?” Cole asks.
“No. We’re shutting all major roadways across the tri-state area. It’s coming down faster than expected. It’s not safe.”
“I understand.”
“Follow the detour. There are places to stay nearby in town.”
“Thanks.”
I listen to the entire exchange, but it doesn’t sink in until Cole swings the Bronco around, taking the first exit. I twist to look at the highway disappearing behind snow-covered pine trees as we round the bend.
“I’m going to miss the market,” I blurt, voice wavering.
All of my doubts rush back. This is out of my control, yet I feel like the world is telling me I’m not good enough to do this after all.
“There’s still tomorrow,” he says gently.
At the anguished sound that snags in my throat, Cole throws me a concerned glance and pulls into an empty parking lot.
He reaches for me. “Evie?—”
“It’s over. I can’t go to the market,” I choke out.
“Hey. Don’t do that.” He cradles my face, brushing away the tears leaking down my cheeks. “Don’t run away. I know that’s not what you want. You’re not giving up.”
My throat burns with frustration and the sting of failure. I shake my head.
“This is just a bump in the road. We’ll figure it out together, okay?”
His gentle tone shatters my aching heart. I try to stop crying, crumbling more in the face of his tender treatment.
“I hate it when you cry, Evie,” he murmurs.
I hiccup, sniffling. It hurts to swallow.
“I’m sorry.”
“Come here.” He draws me in, kissing my forehead. “You don’t have to be sorry. I just want to take your tears away when you cry.”
My eyes close as his scent surrounds me. He runs his palms over my shoulders and cups my nape, kneading until the tension ebbs from my limbs.
“You’re okay.”
“I don’t deserve you,” I whisper.
“Yes you do, sweetheart.”
“You don’t—” I break off with a strained gulp.
