Page 7 of All Snowed Gin

“No. I mean, yes, I do. I have a whole suitcase. But I can’t stay here. I have to get back to Hickory Hills. It’s Christmas! I can’t spend Christmas here!”

“I promise you no one is more displeased about the idea than I am.”

Rose throws me a look, letting me know that my rudeness isn’t appreciated. She is clearly in a personal state of emergency, and I am not helping. Not that there is anything to be done.

“There has to be another way. What about the other side of the mountain?”

“Closest town in that direction is an hour away. On a good day. And they don’t service this area. It’s too far for them, especially with Mistletoe Creek right there.”

The expression on Rose’s face tells me everything I need to know. My logic has no place here. Heaving a sigh, she spins around, heading back for the front door. I blink, taken aback by her reaction. Where does she think she’s going? Did she not hear me?

“What are you doing?” I ask, following her into the hall.

It takes all her strength, but Rose heaves open the door with both hands, a gust of arctic air whooshing in.

“I told you, I can’t stay. I have to get back.”

“And I told you, the bridge is out. Not to mention, did you forget that you have a flat tire?”

“No.”

I catch up with her, only to stop at the landing. I’m not wearing shoes and am not about to step into the snow to chase after some girl. Nope, not happening. She continues on, pushing into the storm.

“Then what are you going to do? Walk?”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do!”

3

ROSE

Truth be told, this was not my brightest idea.

Then again, what else was I going to do? I can’t stay here. For so many reasons. Not the least of which is that I’m very clearly not welcome.

Also, it’s almost Christmas. I. Have. To. Get. Home.

So here I am, three quarters of the way down this forever long driveway—seriously, was it this long on the way up?—regretting this decision. Because it’s freezing. I swear it got colder while I was in the house. How is that even possible?

Because it’s a snowstorm, Rose, gosh…

Tightening my grip around myself, I push on. I have to. My Jeep can’t be too much farther, and once inside, I can crank the heat. Then I can figure out how I’m going to get my sorry self down a mountain and back into town. In the cold. Without a jacket.

Seriously, I need to start making better life choices.

And thinking warm thoughts.

A roaring fire. The bright summer sun. Driftwood Beach on Jekyll Island. The very grumpy man I just walked out on. I startle, trying to figure out how Pierce wormed his way into my brain. There’s no denying he’s hot—HAWT—and could probably warm me up quite nicely if I let him. Let’s not lie; I’d totally let him. Even with that sourpuss attitude.

He has no place in my thoughts though. No matter how attractive he is. Who slams a door in someone’s face like that? Especially with this weather. And then those comments. You’re not going anywhere. Seriously, how did he expect that my mind was not going to instantly flash to serial killer? Man must not listen to very many true crime podcasts, or hell, watch the news, if he thought that was an acceptable thing to say to a young woman.

Stop. Just stop. Focus on something else. Something other than the man hot enough to melt the panties right off you in a snowstorm. Like how on earth you’re going to get down this mountain. In sneakers. With a suitcase.

Maybe I should have stayed inside.

Stopping in my tracks, I suck in a long, deep breath. The cold air burns my lungs, the rest of me shuddering from the new wave of cold. I really need to get to my Jeep. I can see Blanche’s outline start to come into view and that warms my heart. My older brother, Cary, has always made fun of me for painting her lime green, but I’ve never regretted it. In this moment, it feels like the best decision of my life.

When I finally reach her, I almost feel like I can start to relax. Almost. My muscles are too stiff from the walk and the cold to actually ease any of their tension. Soon enough though, once I get inside and get the heat going. I twist the key in the lock—Blanche is old-school like that—but it doesn’t budge. Giving it a little more force, I try again, but no. It’s stuck. Frozen.