Chapter 9 Tessa
Tessa
I’ve been sitting in this car for fifty-three minutes.
I know because I’ve been watching the clock on my dashboard, the green numbers ticking by while I try to figure out how to fix this myself.
The meeting ran late. Of course it did. The caterer had “concerns” about the appetizer selection, and then the venue coordinator wanted to discuss backup plans for the backup plans, and by the time I finally escaped it was already getting dark and the snow was starting to fall.
I told myself it would be fine. Forty minutes. I’ve driven these mountain roads a hundred times. I know every curve, every dip, every stretch where the snow drifts pile up.
What I didn’t account for was a freak storm coming out of nowhere. No warning. No forecast. Just clear skies one minute and whiteout conditions the next. Because of course. Because the universe saw Tessa Lang having a productive day and said absolutely not.
The slide happened fast. One second I was creeping along Ridge Road, squinting through the white, and the next my back end was swinging out and the world was tilting sideways and I was crunching into a snow bank hard enough to rattle my teeth.
Idiot. You’re an idiot. You should have left earlier. You should have checked the weather twice. You should have—
The engine’s still running. The heater’s still blowing. Small mercies.
But the car won’t move. I’ve tried reverse. I’ve tried drive. I’ve tried rocking back and forth the way my foster dad taught me when I was sixteen and got stuck in a parking lot after my first winter storm.
Nothing.
So I did what any reasonable person would do.
I got out and tried to dig.
With my hands. In a blizzard. Because I’m Tessa Lang and I don’t need anyone’s help and I’m apparently also a complete moron.
That lasted about ten minutes before my fingers went numb and I couldn’t feel my face and I had to admit that maybe, possibly, I was in over my head.
Now I’m back in the car, heater cranked, fingers burning as they thaw, and I’m furious. At the storm. At the meeting that ran late. At myself for not leaving sooner, for not being more prepared, for being stuck in this stupid situation in the first place.
Fifty-four minutes.
I pick up my phone for the dozenth time. One bar. Maybe.
I tried calling Maeve twenty minutes ago. Couldn’t get through. Tried Sadie. Same thing. The cell towers must be overloaded, everyone in town trying to check on everyone else.
There’s one person I haven’t tried.
Ben Wilson.
My thumb hovers over his contact. I’ve called this number so many times in the past few weeks, always about the auction, always getting his voicemail or a joke and a quick escape.
He’s probably not even home. Probably at his parents’ place, or the bar, or anywhere but near his phone.
And even if he answers, what am I supposed to say? “Hi, Ben, it’s the woman who’s been hounding you for weeks. I’m stuck in a snowbank like an idiot and I need you to rescue me. Please ignore the fact that I can’t even drive home without screwing it up.”
No. Absolutely not. I’ll figure this out myself.
I shove the phone back on the passenger seat and stare at the white wall outside my windshield.
Fifty-six minutes.
The wind rocks the car hard enough to make me gasp. Snow is piling up against the driver’s side door. If I wait much longer, I might not be able to open it at all.
You’re going to die here because you’re too proud to make a phone call. That’s how they’ll find you. Frozen solid with your dignity intact. Great job, Tessa. Really stellar life choices.
I grab the phone again.
One bar. Flickering.
I hit Ben’s number before I can talk myself out of it.
It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
He’s not going to answer. Why would he answer? He never—
“Tessa?”
His voice hits me like a punch to the chest. Something in me cracks, just a little, and I feel my eyes sting with the sudden urge to cry.
No. Get it together.
“Ben.” My voice comes out shakier than I want. I clear my throat, try again. “I need help. My car’s stuck and it won’t move and I’ve been trying to—”
A gust of wind drowns out my words, rattling the car so hard my teeth click together.
“I’m on Ridge Road,” I manage. “Near the old Miller farm. I can’t see anything and I don’t know what to do and you were—you’re a mechanic—I didn’t know who else to call.”
Pathetic. You sound pathetic.
“Stay in the car.” His voice is firm. Steady. Like an anchor in the middle of all this chaos. “Keep the engine running if you can. We’re coming.”
“We?”
“Just stay put. We’ll find you.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for a second, then two.
And then I fall apart.
It’s not pretty. It’s not dignified. It’s me pressing my forehead to the steering wheel and letting out this horrible gasping sound that might be a sob or might just be all the fear I’ve been shoving down for the past hour finally clawing its way out.
I’m shaking. My whole body is shaking, and it’s not just the cold. It’s the relief. The overwhelming, embarrassing relief of not having to figure this out alone.
He’s coming. Someone’s coming.
I let myself have this. Just for a minute. Just this one small breakdown in the privacy of my freezing car where no one can see me be weak.
Then I sit up. Wipe my face with the back of my hand. Take a breath.
Okay. Enough.
By the time they get here, I’ll be fine. I’ll be normal. I’ll be Tessa Lang, competent event planner, who definitely did not just cry in her car like a scared child.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror. My eyes are a little red. Whatever. It’s cold. Eyes water in the cold. That’s science.
The wait is endless.
I keep the engine running, keep the heater blowing, keep my eyes fixed on the white nothing outside my window. Every few minutes I wipe the condensation from the glass and search for any sign of movement.
Nothing. Just snow and wind and darkness.
What if they can’t find me? What if the storm’s too bad? What if Ben tried to drive and got stuck too and now there’s two of us out here freezing to death?
Stop it. Stop spiraling. You called for help. Help is coming. Just wait.
I flex my fingers, wincing at the sting. My hands are still raw from trying to dig out the car. The skin is red and cracked, a few spots bleeding sluggishly.
Idiot move, Tessa. Really smart. Now you have frostbitten fingers AND you’re still stuck.
The clock ticks over. Almost two hours since I got stuck. Close to an hour since Ben said they were coming. Where are they?
And then—
A light.
I sit up straight, heart hammering, and press my face to the window.
There. A flashlight beam cutting through the white. Then another. Then—
Three figures. Moving through the blizzard, barely visible through the white. They’re roped together, I realize, connected so they don’t lose each other in the storm.
Three?
He said “we” on the phone, but I figured maybe one other person. Not three. Who else came out in this?
They walked. They actually walked.
For me.
I grab my purse, shoving my phone inside, then fumble for the door handle. It sticks, snow packed against the outside, and I have to throw my shoulder against it before it finally pops open.
The wind nearly knocks me down.
I stumble out into the storm, purse clutched against my chest, snow driving into my face, stealing my breath. I can’t see, can’t breathe, can barely stand—
“Tessa!”
Arms catch me. Strong, steady, sure. A scent that cuts through the cold—cedarwood and honey and something warm underneath.
Elijah.
“I’ve got you.” Low and rough, his voice barely audible over the wind.
And then I’m being lifted. Scooped up like I weigh nothing, cradled against a broad chest.
“No.” I shove at his chest, hard. “Put me down. I can walk.”
“You’re not walking.” That’s Ben, appearing out of the white. His face is red from cold, ice in his hair, and he looks furious. “It’s twenty minutes back in good weather—twice that in this. You’re half frozen.”
“I’m fine. Put me down.”
“Tessa—”
“Put. Me. Down.”
Elijah hesitates, looks at Ben, then sets me on my feet.
The wind hits me like a wall. I stagger, catch myself, and take a step forward.
My legs buckle.
I don’t fall—Milo catches my arm before I can—but it’s a near thing. My knees feel like jelly and my whole body is shaking and okay, maybe I’m not as fine as I thought I was.
“Satisfied?” Ben’s voice is flat. “You proved your point. Now can we carry you before you freeze to death?”
“I just need a second—”
“You need to stop being stubborn.” Milo’s grip on my arm is firm. “Sweetheart, your lips are blue. Your hands are bleeding. You’ve been out here for over an hour. Let us help you.”
“I don’t need—”
“Yeah, you do.” Ben steps closer, blocking the wind with his body. “You called us, remember? You asked for help. This is us helping. So either you let Elijah carry you, or I throw you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Your choice.”
I want to argue. Every instinct in my body is screaming at me to fight, to prove I can handle this, to be the person who doesn’t need anyone.
But my legs are shaking. And I can’t feel my fingers. And they came out in this for me.
“Fine,” I grind out. “But I’m not happy about it.”
“Noted.” Ben’s mouth twitches. “Milo, blanket.”
A thick wool blanket appears from somewhere—Milo must have had it wrapped around his shoulders—and then it’s being tucked around me, swaddling me like a burrito before I can protest.
“There.” Milo steps back. “Now you won’t freeze on the way back.”
“I look ridiculous.”
“You look warm. Elijah, she’s all yours.”
Elijah scoops me up, blanket and all. This time I don’t fight it. I’m too cold and too tired and too angry at myself for being too cold and too tired.
This is humiliating. This is absolutely humiliating.
The rope connecting Elijah to the others tugs as we start to move.
“You don’t have to do everything yourself,” he says quietly.
“So I’ve been told.”
“Multiple times, apparently. And yet.”
Is that... sass? From Elijah?