Chapter 4 Rowan
ROWAN
“Something wrong?” Damon asks.
Does he realise how low and sexy his voice is? Even when asking a question, his tone has a demanding purr.
“I just want to check the local weather report.” Right now, the radio station is presenting the news, so it shouldn’t be too long before we get a weather update.
He stares at the sky. “Worried?”
“Maybe.”
“How far away are we?”
I check the SatNav. “An hour.” I grin at the rearview mirror. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you there on time, boss.”
He hisses in a breath and stares pointedly out the window. Was it something I said?
“Why driving?” he asks out of the blue.
I pat the steering wheel. “Because I get to drive beautiful cars I could only ever dream of owning.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“Nigel owns beautiful cars he never drives, and you drive beautiful cars you don’t own.”
I chuckle. “He’d enjoy driving it.”
“He’s scared he’ll scratch it.”
Flakes of snow drift down at a steep angle. I focus on the roads which have not been gritted. Not that a few flakes of snow are a cause for concern. They probably won’t even lie.
“Are you looking forward to the ball tonight?” I ask.
He scowls. “No. It’s not my thing.”
“Why not?” It’s none of my business, but that doesn’t stop me from being curious.
“I don’t like making nice with people I don’t know. I’m not good at chit-chat.”
“You’re talking to me.”
“This isn’t chit-chat.”
“It isn’t? What is it, then?”
“A conversation.”
I can’t help but smile.
He tugs at his collar. “This costume is uncomfortable. I should have waited and changed at the venue. I can’t believe I have to wear this thing all night.”
“Why Scrooge?” Please say ‘bah humbug’. Please say ‘bah humbug’.
“Why not? I’m not happy that Nigel ruined my Christmas break, so I decided this character best fitted my mood.”
“You don’t like Christmas?”
“I don’t like working at Christmas. It’s too stressful.”
“You can relax now, can’t you?”
“After the ball,” he grates out.
“Well, hopefully I’m giving you a relaxing ride, so you can chill out now and after the ball.” I give him the most cheerful smile imaginable.
He upturns his lips a fraction, into a brief but genuine smile. “You’re a good driver.”
“Why, thank you. Oh, here we go.”
I listen to the presenter as she runs through the weather, a sinking feeling growing in my stomach as she mentions that the wind has unexpectedly changed direction, bringing heavy snow our way earlier than expected. Damon’s expression becomes dark and stormy, like the clouds gathering in the sky.
“We should turn back,” he mutters.
“We’re over halfway there. I’m sure it will be fine.”
He stares at the road. “No grit.”
“It won’t lie that fast. I’ll get you to the ball.”
As if the weather reporter’s words have summoned a storm, the snow falls thicker and heavier.
Within minutes, it’s laying on the grass on either side of the road, and coming down so fast, the car’s windscreen wipers are struggling to keep up.
I slow right down, not wanting to navigate narrow, twisting roads at speed when I can’t see further than a few feet ahead.
The road is no longer dark, but white. The car’s tyres struggle to keep purchase.
I find a passing point, pull in and stop, leaving the engine purring, and the heater running.
“Uh,” I say, as I stare at the moving white wall in front of us.
The headlights give the snow an eerie glow. I can’t tell where the ground ends and the sky begins. I check the SatNav, but we’re nowhere near a village.
“Maybe it will pass quickly and melt.” The car tells me it’s below zero outside and getting colder.
“I didn’t think it would lay so fast.” I’ve never seen a snowstorm this bad before.
It’s the kind of thing that would happen in the movies, but not in the UK, especially not this far south.
“I’ll drive slowly and get us somewhere.
” Probably not to the ball. It’s still too far away, but if I can drive ten miles, we’ll reach a village.
“Is it safe to drive?” Damon asks.
“Umm… It would be risky.” But so is staying out here in subzero temperatures.
“Let’s wait it out for a while.”
“You just want to miss the ball,” I joke.
“Not like this,” he says.
I turn the heating up a notch. “I’ll leave the engine on. Hopefully, the storm will blow itself out as quickly as it blew in.”
Not that it looks like it’s going to stop anytime soon.
It’s impenetrably thick. If I’d known we would be driving into a storm like this, I’d have suggested leaving a lot earlier in the day to avoid it.
It wasn’t meant to be this bad, this early, or exactly where we are.
Snowstorms can be fun when you’re inside a cosy building, your nose pressed against the glass, watching the giant flakes float to the ground and transform everything into a winter wonderland.
Being stuck in a car, in the middle of nowhere, on what’s essentially a deserted road doesn’t hold the same sense of wonder and magic.
We wait for forty minutes, but the storm doesn’t let up. The snow keeps falling and laying. I’m not sure where the road is anymore.
“Maybe they’ll send a snowplough out,” I say.
“On these roads? Unlikely. You should turn the engine off. We’re burning fuel for nothing.”
“We’re keeping the car warm.” But, he’s right. We can’t keep the engine running indefinitely. “There’s a blanket in the boot. I’ll fetch it for you.”
I put the privacy screen up and then open the door.
A cold blast of wind and snow rushes into the car, but thanks to my forethought, it can’t reach Damon in the back.
Shivering, I get out, my shoes sinking into thick snow.
Immediately, my socks and the bottom of my trouser legs become soaked.
Ignoring my own discomfort, I stomp around to the boot, open it, and pull out the large picnic blanket that Nigel keeps in there.
I also open the emergency kit, which includes a first-aid kit, two bottles of water—which I replace regularly—and two bars of Kendal Mint Cake.
I take the water and food and leave the first-aid kit.
Hopefully, we won’t need that. With everything bundled in my arms, I shut the boot and return to the car, closing the door before lowering the privacy screen so I can pass Damon the blanket. He doesn’t take it.
“You’re covered in snow.”
He’s right. It’s on my shoulders and in my hair. My face is damp and cold, and I’m still shivering, despite the warm recycled air blowing through the air vents.
“Take the wettest stuff off and use the blanket.” It’s an order, not a suggestion, one that leaves me quivering with need. Damon Cole is taking care of me. Why?
“Uh…”
“Do it.”
Who am I to resist his stern, growly voice? I take off my shoes, socks, and jacket, and wrap myself in the blanket.
“Feel better?”
“Uh-huh, thank you.”
The song playing is interrupted by an emergency weather report. I huddle deeper into the blanket as I listen to the ‘do not travel’ warning, and the grim news that, for the next couple of hours at least, the snowstorm is here to stay.
“Well, fuck,” Damon growls.
That would be one way to pass the time. I press my lips together to stop myself from voicing the all-too-tempting thought out loud.
“I guess you aren’t going to make the ball after all. Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
I was the one who had promised to get him there. But I couldn’t have foreseen weather like this. Apparently, even the forecasters couldn’t.
“I guess we’ve got no choice but to wait the storm out here.” In the middle of nowhere, in an admittedly comfortable car. I climb across into the front passenger seat, where I’ve got more legroom and no steering wheel in the way. “I’ve warmed up now. Do you want the blanket?”
“You keep it.”
“I should turn the engine off.” Not that I want to. Cars aren’t known for keeping the heat in. Once I turn the engine off, it’s going to get cold in here. Fast. Not to mention dark.
Damon nods grimly.
I flick the hazard lights on and turn the engine off. We need to be visible, just in case something gets through the snow—a snowplough, for example. I also leave the star ceiling on. It’s pretty and comforting.
“Two hours,” Damon says.
“At least. Even when the storm ends, we might not be able to get out of here.” Especially not with how quickly the snow is laying. “We could be stuck until it melts, or someone digs us out.”
“Fantastic,” he mumbles. “Fucking fantastic.”