Chapter Three
Clay
We’ve been on the road for fifteen minutes before she finally breaks the silence.
“Thanks for picking me up, Scrooge.” She singsongs it, reaching over to flick through the radio until she lands on something Christmassy.
My head snaps her way. “What’d you just call me?”
“Scrooge.” Her smirk spreads slow, eyes glinting, voice sugar-sweet in the way that cuts. “You’re all bah, humbug and broody. Don’t pretend I’m not right.”
I should ignore her. Instead, my jaw locks, teeth grinding. “Cute.”
Her voice fills the cab as I merge onto the interstate, words tumbling out faster than the snow hitting the windshield. Starting with her professors dragging out finals to her roommate bailing early, and then how she can’t wait for her mom’s cooking.
I keep my eyes on the road, acting like I’m not listening, but I always do when it’s just us. I catch the way she still bites her lip when she’s thinking, and the way her laughter comes out loud and unfiltered, like she doesn’t care who hears it.
She’s still Tessa. Just older now, with sharper edges and softer curves. More settled in her skin, in ways I shouldn’t be paying attention to.
The glow of the city fades in the rearview, replaced by empty backroads. Snow thickens, whipping across the windshield in white sheets. My grip tightens, knuckles pale on the wheel as the tires skid, fishtail, and then catch again.
“Maybe we should just pull over.” Her voice comes out shaky, her fingers tightening around the door handle.
“No,” I snap, sharper than I intend, but I don’t take it back. “The longer we wait, the worse it’s going to get. We’re about an hour out.”
“On a normal day,” she fires back, heat flickering under the nerves in her tone. “At this rate, it’ll be midnight.”
The wipers scrape over the glass, catching on ice, louder than the silence between us. This car isn’t made for this weather—the snow’s coming down too fast, and the car is too low for these backroads covered in snow with ice and trees that all blur together.
“Clay—”
“I got it.”
I don’t, not really. The tires spin, the back end whipping around in a full circle before the traction finally catches. We slide to a stop facing the wrong direction. For a second, neither of us moves. Her hand grips the handle, knuckles white, and her breath comes out in heavy pants.
“Well,” she says finally, voice shaky but trying for calm. “Guess you meant to do that?”
I huff out a laugh. “Yeah,” I say, catching my breath. “Just testing the traction.”
She shoots me a glare. “More like testing your luck.”
I smirk, but my grip on the wheel stays tight. “Relax, Tess. I’ve got us.”
She exhales, quiet but sharp. “You better.”
I ease back onto the road, the tires crunching over the snow as we straighten out.
The road ahead is empty, the world swallowed in white.
For the next few miles, neither of us talks.
Her hand stays resting near the console, close enough that if I moved mine an inch, I could feel her warmth. I don’t. But I think about it.
Her phone screen throws a cold blue glow across her face.
“We’re not far from Briar Creek,” she murmurs, shifting in her seat.
The scarf around her neck slips, exposing a strip of skin that looks too pale against the light.
My gaze catches on it before I jerk my eyes back to the road, the knot in my chest tightening.
A beat later, she scrolls, taps, and suddenly Mariah Carey blasts through the speakers—bright, cheerful, and completely wrong for the storm outside.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” My hand shoots out, killing the radio, and forces us back into silence heavier than the snow piling up outside.
Her gasp slices through the silence. “You did not just turn off Christmas music. Who even hates—” She stops midsentence when my jaw flexes, my tone sharper than I mean when I say her name.
I don’t risk a glance at her. Can’t, not with the road nothing but a whirl of white flakes beyond my headlights. Still, I catch her shift in her seat out of the corner of my eye. She leans back, quiet now, twisting the seat belt strap between her fingers like she needs something to hold on to.
The car hums, the tires fighting through the packed snow and slick ice. Every so often, the back end fishtails, skidding just enough to remind me I don’t have as much control as I’d like. My forearms burn from the death grip I have on the wheel, muscles tight enough to cramp, but I don’t let go.
The quiet stretches between us. The kind that makes every sound louder—the engine’s low growl, wipers clawing at the glass, the storm hissing as it pelts the hood.
I should be grateful she’s not filling the space with chatter, but the quiet sits wrong. Too heavy. Too full of things neither of us will say.
Through the storm, a faint glow finally cuts through the white. Looks like a gas station, but it’s the first thing we’ve seen in miles.
“There!” she blurts, her voice cracking with relief as she points.
“I see it.” My answer comes flat, but the relief hits me too. The roads are getting worse by the minute, snow piling faster than the plows can touch it. We need a break, somewhere to wait it out. I guide the car toward the lot, tires crunching over packed snow.
I cut the engine. The heater clicks off, and the wind takes over, rattling the car. Neither of us moves at first. The quiet is thicker than the storm.
I finally let out a breath, peeling my hands off the wheel. “I’ll grab us something to eat. Couple of drinks. Maybe you should see if there’s somewhere close to crash for the night.” My voice comes out low, softer than I mean for it to.
Her shoulders ease, like she’s been wound tight since we pulled out of campus. “If they have pizza by the slice, I’ll take two.” There’s teasing in her tone, like she’s testing how far this truce will stretch.
I shoot her a look. “Really?”
“I’d never joke about pizza.”
My lip curls before I can stop it. “Gas station pizza doesn’t sound appetizing.”
“Gas station pizza is where it’s at, Clay.” A grin tugs at her mouth. “Don’t tell me that playing in the NHL ruined you into thinking you’re too good for it.”
I mutter under my breath and shove the door open. Cold air hits me, nearly taking my breath away. Snow crunches under my dress shoes, slick and useless in this weather.
Inside, the air hangs heavy with burnt coffee and fryer grease.
The fluorescent lights are harsh after miles of whiteout conditions.
I don’t waste time browsing. I grab two bottled waters, a couple of hot sandwiches, a bag of chips, and a bottle of whiskey from behind the counter.
No pizza. Not that I expected otherwise.
By the time I push back outside, the storm still hasn’t let up. Snow clings to my coat and hair like it doesn’t want to let go. She’s waiting in the passenger seat, the glow from her phone softening her face, making her look younger for a second.
Sliding in, I hold out the food. “Hate to break it to you, but no pizza. Guess you’ll have to settle for chips and a sandwich.”
Her smile is smaller this time, not that wide, blinding grin she usually throws at me. “Thank you. Honestly, anything’s fine at this point.”
I nod and turn the key. The engine rumbles back to life, filling the silence until she starts in like she always does.
She tells me about the cabin she booked—small with two bedrooms and full of rustic charm.
Firewood included. Usually, I’d cut in, remind her of everything that could go wrong, but after hours crammed in this car, I don’t have the fight left in me.
The headlights punch a hole in the storm, barely enough to see ten feet ahead before the snow swallows it. Out here, it’s just the car and the road, and nothing else. Every mile drags. My hands ache from how tight I’m holding the wheel, my jaw locked until it hurts.
The tires slip now and then, enough to make my stomach knot tighter, but it’s not the road that’s got me wound up. I glance over to see Tessa braced against the seat, one hand locked on the door handle, the other smoothing over her thigh.
My eyes roam where they shouldn’t—her hand, the curve of her thigh in those jeans—and I jerk them back to the windshield, my pulse hammering. Focus, Clay. On the road and not her. But it’s harder than it should be, sitting this close after not seeing her for years.
The GPS chimes, and I ease into a curve. The back end fishtails hard, the seat belt biting across my chest as the car jerks. A growl slips out. “Dammit.”
“It’s okay. We’re almost there,” she whispers. She tries to reassure me, but I hear the tremor in her voice.
Up ahead, a faint glow cuts through the snow, a mix of reds and greens. As we get closer, the bulbs strung around a mailbox take shape, barely visible until we’re right on top of them.
Tessa leans forward, finger pressed to the glass. “This is it. The listing said the owner wrapped the mailbox in Christmas lights so no one misses the turn.”
The tires crunch through the snow as we pull off the road and into the drive, stopping near the porch.
The cabin comes into view through the blur—dark logs stacked along the side, half buried by a drift.
Smoke curls from the chimney, and a wreath strung with Christmas lights glows faintly at the peak.
Tessa exhales, the windows already fogging. “We made it.” Her voice is soft, like she’s already imagining blankets and a fire.
I cut the engine. The silence that drops in its place is worse.
“Yeah.” The word scrapes out flat. My hand stays on the key longer than it should. “For now.”
She tilts her head, lips parting like she’s ready to fire back, but nothing comes. For a moment, it’s just the two of us in the dark, the storm beating at the window as everything unsaid closes in.
I shove the door open, and the cold slams into me, sharp enough to burn my lungs. I don’t wait for her. I need the sting, need something to smother the heat crawling under my skin that has nothing to do with the storm.
She’s right behind me, knocking snow from her boots, tugging her hat lower. When she bends to grab her duffel, her scarf shifts, and a strip of skin shows at her throat again. My grip tightens around the keys before I can stop it.
She catches me looking and smiles, like being stuck here together isn’t a problem. She’s like sunshine in the middle of all this, and it’s exactly what I don’t need.
I shoulder past her for the suitcases from the trunk, her vanilla scent brushing the cold air. My jaw locks as I take the steps two at a time. “Let’s just get inside before the sidewalks ice over more.”
The porch groans under my boots. I don’t turn, but I feel her eyes on me.
If this storm doesn’t break us, the next few days just might.