Snowed In with the Silver Foxes (Silverfox Arrangements #1)

Chapter 1

Mia

Ugh, just my luck. I drag my suitcase past a sad-looking row of plastic ferns and a sign that says “Welcome to Boston!” with exactly zero enthusiasm. My phone vibrates for the third time in as many minutes, and I already know it’s Sarah texting me.

At the rental counter, I’m greeted by a chirpy college kid with braces and a name tag that reads “CHASE,” as if that’s not already a warning sign. He taps, frowns, taps again, then looks up at me with the kind of pity usually reserved for orphans in Victorian novels.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am, but…it looks like we don’t have any cars available at the moment.”

Of course. Of course they don’t. The universe takes one look at my “I’m just here for the open bar” wedding energy and says: nope. I plaster on my best customer-service smile, the one that says I’m definitely not about to start yelling in public, and lean in.

“Not even like, a weird van or a busted Prius or…I don’t know, anything with four wheels attached to it that will safely take me up a mountain?”

He shakes his head. “Sorry. Maybe in a few hours?”

A few hours. I could grow a beard in a few hours. I could actually become the ghost of ex-girlfriends past and haunt this damn terminal forever.

I take a deep breath, trying not to roll my eyes so hard they fall out of my head. I pull out my phone, checking the confirmation email for the millionth time. Yep—reservation, in my name, paid in advance. Does the car exist? No. Am I surprised? Also no.

Honestly, is it too much to ask for one tiny thing to go right? I’m already on my way to the world’s most awkward event: my ex’s wedding. And not just any ex. The Ex. The one who fucked me up for good. I exhale slowly, resisting the urge to bang my head on the counter.

Breathe, Mia. Breathe.

Why would I expect anything else from this trip?

It’s like the universe has been laughing at me from the moment I RSVPed yes—hell, from the moment Sarah called to say she and Jason were engaged.

I mean, seriously. My best friend and my ex.

Getting married. To each other. And I said I’d come.

I said I’d be happy for them. What a joke.

I glance at my phone, thumb hovering over Sarah’s name.

Should I text her? Hey, can you believe I can’t even get a car to your wedding because fate thinks this is hilarious?

Yeah, that’ll go over well. I can hear her voice already: “Mia, just Uber! It’s no big deal!

” No big deal. Like this whole thing isn’t a cosmic-level prank.

I press my lips together, forcing down the prickle in my eyes. I will not cry in a rental car line. I will not.

I should’ve stayed home. I should’ve said no. But I didn’t. Because some part of me—some reckless, masochistic part—needs to see it for myself. Needs to see them together, needs to know it’s real. Needs to prove I’m fine, I’m over it, I’m above it all. Even when it’s so, so obvious I’m not.

I fight the urge to text Sarah and tell her some elaborate lie about my flight being delayed, just so I can crawl into a hotel bed for twenty-four hours and pretend this wedding isn’t happening. That’s when I notice him—the man.

He’s hard to miss. Tall, at least six foot two, and broad in the way that expensive suits are tailored for, not gym memberships.

Mid-to-late forties, if I had to guess, with thick, dark hair that’s only just starting to gray at the temples.

Chiseled jaw, clean-shaven, a face you’d trust in a car commercial, maybe not so much in a confession booth.

I catch myself looking before I remember I’m supposed to be wallowing in my own misfortune, not ogling men who probably order top-shelf whiskey and call people “sport.”

He’s talking—no, demanding—at the counter, that perfect jaw clenched, blue eyes narrowed. Even his annoyance is attractive, in a movie villain sort of way.

“I don’t care if you’re ‘out.’ Jarrod told me everything would be ready.” His voice is sharp, clipped, every word bitten off like it’s the rental clerk’s fault his life is slightly inconvenienced. “This is ridiculous.”

The poor clerk, a kid barely out of college if that, goes bright red. “Sir, I—I understand, but there’s really nothing available right this—”

“Unbelievable. I fly across the country for this and—”

“Excuse me,” I say, maybe a little louder than I mean to, and both men turn. The older man looks me over with a single, dismissive glance that sweeps up and down as if I’m just another suitcase left on the curb.

“Is there a problem?” I ask, folding my arms. Something about his attitude lights a fuse in me. I am not letting this man treat people like garbage just because he’s been blessed by the gods of genetics and—probably—money.

He arches an eyebrow, a condescending little smirk playing at his lips. “What do you think you can do?”

Before I can reply, the clerk’s radio crackles. He listens, nods, relief washing over his face. “Sir, the car is ready. The Lincoln Continental, as requested.”

The man huffs. “About time.” He grabs the keys and strides away.

I watch his retreating back, all that polished confidence rolling over anyone in his way.

Yeah, the attraction dies a sudden, unceremonious death.

It’s like watching a beautiful cake collapse in slow motion—a shame, but not surprising.

When the sliding glass doors swallow up the last of his scowl, the rental desk feels a little less suffocating. I turn back to the clerk, raising an eyebrow.

“Okay, wait—how did he get a car when you just told me there’s nothing available?” I hold up my reservation, phone glowing with the confirmation email like proof of sanity.

The clerk winces, looking everywhere but my face. “Uh, well, his reservation was…technically for a higher tier. And he called ahead. Sort of.” He shrugs, as if the explanation is floating in the air between us and I’m supposed to just catch it and let it go.

He starts tapping at the keyboard, probably hoping I’ll just dissolve into the crowd. Then he glances at the screen, and something in his expression changes.

“Wait a second. Coines?” he says, half joking. “You aren’t…you aren’t Jarrod’s daughter, are you?”

I didn’t want to do this right now, but I don’t want to lie either. I just shrug, feeling that familiar weight in my shoulders. “I guess so.”

His eyes go huge. “Shit.” He actually says it out loud, then slaps a hand over his mouth.

“Sorry—sorry! I mean, wow. Jarrod Coines is, um, the owner. Of all this.” He gestures at the rental counter, the row of screens, the entire airport, maybe.

“I had no idea—uh, you probably get that all the time, right? Oh god, I’m not in trouble, am I? ”

I want to laugh, but it comes out as a sigh. “Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble. I promise. I’m just here to pick up a car, not do a performance review.”

He looks like he might melt behind the desk. “It’s just that your dad is like, a legend. Around here, I mean. And I…really didn’t realize—”

“It’s fine,” I say, waving him off. “Honestly. I’m not here to report anyone. You’ve been more helpful than most. Just…whatever you can get me is fine.”

He nods, a little breathless, all apologies. “Thank you. Thank you for being so chill. Most people would totally pull rank right now.”

I manage a real smile this time. “Well, I’m not most people. Besides, it’s not your fault Boston is allergic to rental cars today.”

He actually grins back. “I’ll get you something as soon as I can, Mia. I promise.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Really. Don’t sweat it.”

As I stand there, the rental clerk buzzing around to speed things up, I can’t help but replay that scene with the older guy at the counter.

The way he name-dropped my dad, all casual—like he knew him personally.

I wonder how he even knows him. I mean, sure, my dad’s got his name on the building, but that doesn’t mean every overgrown frat boy in a suit gets to act like they own the place.

Maybe he does know my dad, though. People like that seem to know everyone who matters, or at least think they do.

But I shrug it off as the clerk finally waves me outside.

“We’ve got something ready for you, Ms. Coines,” he says, still a little nervous.

A small, shiny sedan is waiting by the curb, smelling faintly of lemon cleaner and other people’s stories.

I sign the last form, thank the kid one more time, and roll my suitcase to the car, grateful just to be moving.

It’s dusk by the time I pull out of Logan and head north, city lights giving way to scrubby woods and the familiar hush of New England highways. The GPS says it’s an hour and a half to the resort. Just enough time to stew in my own thoughts.

I grip the wheel a little tighter and wonder, not for the first time, why I agreed to all this.

Why did I let Sarah talk me into being her maid of honor?

Sure, we’ve been friends since Choate, surviving AP Chemistry and lacrosse and college heartbreak together.

We pinky swore on the quad that we’d show up—no matter what—if the other called.

Back then, it felt like a promise that meant “forever,” or at least “for the important things.”

But this? This is stretching even our friendship to its limit. Maybe beyond.

I picture Sarah—always larger than life, impossible not to love, impossible to compete with. I remember the phone call, her voice breathless. “I know it’s weird, Mia, but it has to be you. You’re my person. Promise me?”

And I promised. Of course I did.

Then Jason happened. My Jason. Or, well, not mine for a long time now. He showed up out of nowhere, swept Sarah right off her feet like it was some twisted rom-com. Only, I’m not the main character in this story anymore. Maybe I never was.

The road winds higher, the woods pressing in, and I force myself to focus on the taillights ahead. It’s just a weekend, Mia. Just a dress, a couple of awkward speeches, a few days of pretending that nothing hurts, that you’re happy for them. You can survive this. You have to.

Still, I can’t shake the thought that somewhere, somehow, I took a wrong turn, and now I’m just coasting downhill, waiting to see where I’ll land. The mountains rise in the distance, blue and shadowed, the resort somewhere at their feet. I press the gas a little harder.

The sky deepens to navy as I wind through a stretch of pine-lined road, headlights slashing through the mist that always seems to settle in these mountains.

My phone buzzes with a new message. Probably Sarah, checking if I’ve gotten lost or bailed.

I don’t look. Not yet. I’m not sure what I’d say if I did.

The first flecks of snow appear in the beams of my headlights, swirling, delicate, just dust at first. I turn up the defrost, glancing at the temperature display as the miles tick by.

Tall pines crowd the edge of the road, their branches soon dusted white.

The highway narrows as I wind into the hills, the world outside softening under the gentle hush of snowfall.

Everything gets quieter, like the night is holding its breath.

It’s beautiful, in a way that almost hurts—cold and clear, the world made new again. I grip the steering wheel, eyes flickering to the rearview mirror, half expecting to see the past chasing me down the road.

Jason’s voice drifts up unbidden, slippery-smooth, practiced: You need to stand up for yourself, Mia.

Stop letting your father control everything.

I’d believed him, for a while. Believed I was weak, too dependent, too eager to please.

He made it all sound so reasonable, as if every problem was just my inability to cut the cord.

He’d looked at me with those earnest eyes, the same ones that charmed Sarah, I guess, and said, “I just want to build a life with you—not your family’s money. Not your father’s approval.”

But that wasn’t the truth. All my father ever insisted on was a prenup.

It wasn’t a scandal; it was a formality, something everyone in our world does.

Not because we don’t love, but because we’ve all seen what happens when things fell apart.

It was never about control. It was about protection—mine as much as his.

I tried to explain that to Jason. Tried to make him see that it wasn’t a lack of trust, just the way things worked in our circles. But he’d twisted it, used it against me, until I started to question everything: my loyalty, my independence, my worth.

The snow thickens, heavy flakes plastering the windshield, the wipers scraping it clean every few seconds.

I slow down as the road curves tighter, remembering how Jason left me.

Not gently, not with honesty or grace, but spectacularly—at the altar, under a spray of white flowers and Christmas lights, with every person I loved watching.

He hadn’t even called. Just a note slipped to the best man, some half-hearted line about “needing to find himself” and “not being able to compete with my family.”

Two Christmases ago, and it still stings like it’s happening right now.

I can see the church doors blown open by the wind, the aisle slick with petals and slush, my mother’s stunned face, my father’s silent, white-knuckled rage.

I stood there alone, bouquet trembling in my hands, feeling every inch of myself empty out until I wasn’t sure there was anything left.

For months afterward, I thought no one would ever love me again. I convinced myself that Jason’s leaving was a judgment—on my family, on who I was, on who I’d never be.

The snow on the road glows gold in my headlights, swirling and shifting like ghosts. I shiver, rubbing my thumb over the steering wheel.

Ahead, the sign for the resort looms, haloed in frost: Havencrest Mountain Lodge—Welcome. Lights glitter between the trees, warm and distant, promising comfort that feels both close and impossibly far away. I ease off the gas, following the long, winding drive.

I can do this. It’s just a wedding. Just a weekend.