The thought makes me mutter a curse under my breath. I drape the dress over my arm, snag my purse, and head out, my boots clicking too loud on the stairs.
The lot is dim, lit by a single streetlamp over cracked pavement. Clay stands at the back of a small sports car, its trunk barely big enough for one suitcase, let alone two.
A Maserati. Of course. Typical Clay—NHL money, expensive taste, and just enough flash to remind you he’s used to the spotlight. I’d guess it’s a rental, since we were supposed to fly out…but with him, I can’t be sure.
“I’ll hang this in the back, if that’s okay?” I hold the dress up for him to see.
His eyes flick over. One nod. That’s it. He shuts the trunk with one hand.
I lean into the back seat to hang the dress, then circle to the passenger side. The leather seat is cool against my legs, the whole car smelling faintly of his cologne—clean, woodsy, and unmistakably him.
The door closes with a soft click, shutting us in. My gaze betrays me, sliding sideways. Clay’s profile is all sharp edges in the glow of the dash, his hands tight on the wheel, jaw locked, mouth set in a line. He looks like he’s already over this trip—and over me—before we’ve even left.
“You going to put your seat belt on so we can leave?” His flat voice lands with the weight of a command.
I glance at him, irritation bubbling up fast. “Are you planning to act like this the whole drive?”
“Like what?” He doesn’t look at me. His eyes stay trained on the windshield, his tone unreadable, like he really doesn’t see what I’m getting at.
A dozen responses swirl through my mind.Like an asshole. Like the last time we saw each other, you hadn’t kissed me. Like someone who looks at me and pretends it didn’t mean anything.But I swallow them down, pressing my lips together. Four hours in a car with him isn’t something I want to make worse before it even begins.
I yank the seat belt across my chest and click it into place, blowing out a breath as I turn toward the window. My reflection stares back—wide eyes, cheeks still hot, and lip gloss smeared at the corner of my mouth.
Clay shifts the car into gear. I press my palms against my thighs, trying to sit still. The harder I try not to look at him, the more aware I am of the space between us. No matter how hard I try to shut him out, he’s impossible to ignore.
Chapter Three
Clay
We’ve been on the road for fifteen minutes before she finally breaks the silence.
“Thanks for picking me up, Scrooge.” She singsongs it, reaching over to flick through the radio until she lands on something Christmassy.
My head snaps her way. “What’d you just call me?”
“Scrooge.” Her smirk spreads slow, eyes glinting, voice sugar-sweet in the way that cuts. “You’re all bah, humbug and broody. Don’t pretend I’m not right.”
I should ignore her. Instead, my jaw locks, teeth grinding. “Cute.”
Her voice fills the cab as I merge onto the interstate, words tumbling out faster than the snow hitting the windshield. Starting with her professors dragging out finals to her roommate bailing early, and then how she can’t wait for her mom’s cooking.
I keep my eyes on the road, acting like I’m not listening, but I always do when it’s just us. I catch the way she still bites her lip when she’s thinking, and the way her laughter comes out loud and unfiltered, like she doesn’t care who hears it.
She’s still Tessa. Just older now, with sharper edges and softer curves. More settled in her skin, in ways I shouldn’t be paying attention to.
The glow of the city fades in the rearview, replaced by empty backroads. Snow thickens, whipping across the windshield in white sheets. My grip tightens, knuckles pale on the wheel as the tires skid, fishtail, and then catch again.
“Maybe we should just pull over.” Her voice comes out shaky, her fingers tightening around the door handle.
“No,” I snap, sharper than I intend, but I don’t take it back. “The longer we wait, the worse it’s going to get. We’re about an hour out.”
“On a normal day,” she fires back, heat flickering under the nerves in her tone. “At this rate, it’ll be midnight.”
The wipers scrape over the glass, catching on ice, louder than the silence between us. This car isn’t made for this weather—the snow’s coming down too fast, and the car is too low for these backroads covered in snow with ice and trees that all blur together.
“Clay—”
“I got it.”
