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“Both hands on the wheel, buddy. And I’ll decide if I’m safe. I haven’t forgotten how you almost ran over that cat.”

“I was more worried about running over the pretty girl.” He smirks, but does as he’s told. And I immediately miss the warmth of his palm.

We left London about an hour ago. And most of that hour was spent trying to get through the gridlocked streets of the city, then onto the dual carriageway that leads to Theo’s home county.

Apparently the rest of the drive will be on roads like this one, cutting through the green countryside, because there aren’t any highways in Norfolk.

“Can I turn on the radio?” I ask him. He nods and I lean forward, pressing the button. I hit it a couple of times, passing through some jazz music and what sounds like a radio play, before I find what I’m looking for.

As soon as the jingles come on, Theo groans. “Christmas music? Do we have to?”

“You know, for a man who has everything, you’re pretty grumpy sometimes.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Having everything doesn’t mean I have to love Mariah Carey.”

“This is Ariana Grande,” I tell him, smiling because he looks like he couldn’t give a damn who it is. “Come on, you must like at least one Christmas song.”

“I liked the one the Muppets sang the other night,” he says.

My cheeks heat.

He slides his hand on my thigh again. Higher this time, his finger tip tracing the upper crease in my thigh.

I swat his wrist lightly. “Focus. We’re on a road the width of an alleyway.”

He grins but drops his hand back to the steering wheel. Outside, the shrubs blur into open fields, long stretches of winter grass stitched with bare trees.

A few white flecks drift across the windshield.

“Oh,” I say, leaning forward to press my face against the cold glass. “Is that snow?”

“It won’t stick,” Theo tells me. “Just a wintery mix.”

As if summoned by his arrogance, the flakes grow thicker. I smile widely at his groan.

The cars ahead slow even more, brake lights glowing red through the white flakes.

“Remind me not to rely on you for weather forecasts,” I say, turning the music down a notch.

We come to a stop behind a van. The snow settles along the road edge, catching in the branches, softening the sharp edges of the landscape.

It’s beautiful. And faintly ridiculous, because right now everything looks so picture perfect.

I want to take a photo. Remember this moment forever. Even when I’m old and gray.

“You look like you’ve never seen snow before,” Theo murmurs. “Doesn’t it snow a lot in New York?”

“It’s different here. Like a fairytale.” It reminds me of The Holiday, when Cameron Diaz arrives in England and has to run across the snowy field.

“You won’t say that when we’re stuck in this car all night.”

I don’t know. A snowy night in a car with Theo Hunt doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world. He taps his fingers against the wheel, to the rhythm of “Last Christmas” and it reminds me of how he plays the piano. Innately, without even thinking about it.

“Oh, by the way I got the feature,” I say, because I didn’t have the chance to tell him yesterday.

He turns to look at me again. “You did? That’s great news, congratulations.” A genuine smile pulls at his lips. “When’s the deadline?”

“After Christmas. I’ll need to buckle down once I’m back in New York.” I pause, because part of me wants to ask about after. What it means to him. But apparently I’m too much of a coward.