My mind made up, I drained the rest of my drink and set the glass down. “I’m heading out.”
Archie raised a knowing eyebrow. “Off to save the pretty tourist from the snow, then?”
“I’ve got pages to finish,” I said, the lie rolling too easily off the tongue.
“You’re writing again?” he asked, leaning casually against the bar.
“Yeah,” I said, the word tasting bitter in my mouth. I’d been here for months and barely had ten good pages to show for it.
When I’d sold the idea, it sounded easy: a handbook on mental toughness for players like me. How to pull yourself out of a losing streak, how to rebuild your confidence after setbacks. I’d been so excited. Now, on my second deadline extension, I was staring down a conversation with my publisher in the new year that I’d rather not have.
“That’s great,” Archie said, his smile warm and genuine, which only made me feel worse. “Go write your bestseller.”
I muttered my goodbyes and braced myself for the cold. The moment I stepped outside, I almost regretted leaving. Even my thick jacket couldn’t keep the chill from biting at my skin. I trudged towards my car, shoulders slumping at the sight of the windshield buried under an inch of fresh snow. Resigning myself, I got to work clearing it, my fingers freezing by the time I was done.
There was no sign of her outside the pub, but I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting – maybe her stranded in the middle of the road, looking like an overgrown possum in that coat.
Instead, there was only snow and empty streets.
I climbed into the car and drove slowly through town, looking out for her. She wouldn’t be hard to spot. Fur coats and stiletto boots weren’t exactly the fashion around here. However, after cruising through the main streets and peering down a few cul-de-sacs, I began to worry.
Where was she?
Had she been a figment of my imagination? Maybe that would explain why I felt so unsteady.
I pulled over at the corner of the street, engine idling as I tried to figure out what to do. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about leaving a tourist to their own devices. In this weather, however, it felt hard to let go.
Movement caught my eye; the door to the corner shop swung open, light spilling out. Like an angel, there she was.
She grumbled, staring down at her feet and wrestling with the suitcase, a handbag, and two carrier bags filled to bursting.
Without thinking, I rolled down the window and leaned out. “You looking for a ride?”
She froze mid-step, her face falling faster than the temperature outside.
Well, that isn’t a good sign.
four
KIT
Awake My Soul - Mumford & Sons
“You need to go up the hill. Keep going, right up, over the dip,” the shopkeeper instructed, her nasally voice thick with an accent ingrained in every letter. I stood at the till of the village shop, four bottles of Pinot Grigio, some crackers, and an excellent local cheddar piled into a bag, regretting asking for directions to my holiday rental.
“When you think it has levelled out, keep going. Right up to the top. Up, up, up.”
“Up!” I smiled weakly, trying my best to feign enthusiasm. “Thanks.”
I was headedup, up, upshit creek, alright.
I stepped outside, the streetlights barely cutting through the thick darkness, their glow bouncing off the packed snow that crunched underfoot. And that was when I heard that unwelcome American accent ringing in the winter air. I twisted slowly, my gaze lowering to the parked car.
“You looking for a ride?”
The obvious double meaning was not lost on me as I tsked, sick of the bullshit that the male species placed upon the world. Turning, I carried on up the street, resigning myself to the walk. I could see the headline:
“Wait.” The echo of speedy footsteps followed me up the street. When he was close, I turned sharply, ready to use my bag full of wine and cheese as a weapon.
