Chapter Forty-Eight
Maggie
Maggie was torn. She should have felt scared. Violated. Outraged. But as she stood in the middle of the room that had seemed
so lovely two days before, all she could do was wonder how she’d turned into a woman who was looking at her watch, counting
down the minutes she’d been apart from Ethan Wyatt.
Of course, it’s easy to stay busy in a ransacked room, hanging up clothes and remaking the bed, stuffing cords and devices
back in her bag. Only the sight of the laptop stopped her. She hadn’t written a word since she’d boarded the jet, and Maggie
didn’t want to think about what it meant. Maggie didn’t want to think about anything.
So she straightened the room and examined the fireplace. James had told them that the chimneys were safe to use and they should
feel free to light a fire since the electricity would likely be off for the foreseeable future. So she balled up some notebook
paper and stacked some wood; but every time she tried to light it, the paper would burn too quickly, leaving her with a tiny
pile of ashes and the smell of smoke and no warmth of any kind. It reminded her of Colin.
When she heard a knock on the door, she threw it open, unsurprised to find Ethan standing there, taking up every ounce of
space like his day job had been Door or Gate or Human Barricade.
“Margaret...” He looked like he couldn’t decide if he should tease or scold. “Why did we go to the trouble of making a
secret password if you’re just going to—”
She slammed the door in his face and felt herself smiling at the wood for three solid seconds—right up until a fist rapped
again, quick and light and almost... flirty?
She reached for the knob but said, “Password?”
“MacGuffin.” He managed to sound stern and gleeful at the same time, so she opened the door just a crack—and there he was,
hand on the doorframe, leaning down.
It was exactly how he’d stood on the jet. At the time, the pose had felt imposing and calculating, like some kind of big cat—a
tiger or lion—stretching and getting ready to pounce. But this time it just made her feel... warm.
“Happy?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Getting there.” His gaze dropped to her lips and he might have inched a little closer.
She knew, vaguely, that she was supposed to be doing something. Making fires or solving crimes or... moving. Yes. That
was it. She was definitely supposed to be moving, but her feet were like lead and her body was weightless in the presence
of a man who had always had his own gravity.
She felt a brush against her side, in the dip of her waist. Fingertips , her tired brain filled in. Ethan’s fingers were grazing against a perfectly innocent part of her body—one you can reveal
in swimsuits and crop tops and workout attire—but it felt almost indecent. It was the most naked a woman can feel while wearing
a puffy coat. Her body was a live wire, and she was half afraid they’d start a fire. But then the hand pressed against her
slightly and she remembered—
Door.
Room.
Electricity.
Eleanor.
Maggie stepped back, turning to the cold fireplace while Ethan closed and locked the door. She heard a scrape as he pushed
the dresser into place, and then he slapped his hands together. “So, do you want the good news or the bad news or the I’m
not-sure-what-that-means-yet news?”
“Uh...” Maggie honestly didn’t know. It felt like a very hard question. “Bad?”
“The generator’s shot,” Ethan said. “Looks like we are officially in the dark. Indefinitely. Or at least until the grid comes
back online.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know why she didn’t feel more disappointed.
“The I’m-not-sure-what-that-means-yet news is that our room appears to be the only one that was searched.”
“Okay.” She took a deep breath, considering. Remembering. “What’s the good news?”
Suddenly, his face morphed into what could best be described as Little Boy Performing a Magic Trick. He did everything but
say abracadabra as he reached behind him with both hands and exclaimed, “I found flashlights!”
One was very large and silver and had to be at least fifty years old. The second was black and small enough to slip into a
pocket, and that’s the one he handed to her. “Here.”
“Why do you get the big one?”
But he didn’t answer. He just dropped to his knees and busied himself in front of the fire.
“That won’t work. I think the wood must be wet or...” But she trailed off as a wisp of smoke began rising over Ethan’s
shoulder. A golden glow flickered across his jaw and in that moment, he looked like something painted on a cave wall a thousand
years ago.
“How did you...”
“Man build fire,” he said with a cocky grin. But then he almost blushed as he turned back to the flames. “And maybe I really
was a Boy Scout.”
“I knew it.”
But when he looked up at her that time, the boyish grin was gone and the fire was burning brighter—hotter. Maggie couldn’t
shake the feeling that this was an Ethan she had never known before—had never met or seen—when he tugged her hand and said,
“Come here.”
Maggie sank to the floor, closer to him and the flames, trying not to think about how Christmas Eve was always the loneliest
night of the year.
“Please tell me you read those notebooks.” His voice was dark and even.
She came this close to blurting What notebooks? But then she remembered— “You mean Eleanor’s new novel about a woman who fakes her death and runs away because someone is
trying to kill her?”
She honestly hadn’t been expecting him to laugh, but when the sound cut through the room it felt... right. “Eleanor is
amazing. Can I be her when I grow up?”
“Can’t.” Maggie pulled her legs to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. “I called dibs.”
“Yeah.” He looked down at her. “You did.”
She looked back at the flames, and when Ethan poked the fire and added more wood, little sparks flew up like fireflies. Like
it was Christmas Eve and the Fourth of July rolled into one.
“Hey.” He bumped his leg against hers. “Did she solve it for us?” He sounded almost hopeful. Like maybe this was going to
be easier than he’d thought. Like maybe they could cut class, run away, play hooky until the holiday was over and the snow
was gone and the villain was someone else’s problem.
“No. The last notebook was missing, remember?”
“Right.” He gestured toward the still-messy room. “Hence the search.”
She nodded. “Hence the search. So I don’t know how the book ends, and I don’t know how this ends, and... Ugh.” She took a deep breath and tried again. “I don’t know how to do this. Or help her. Or...”
Be me.
The words fell into her head, unbidden, and Maggie didn’t want to think about what they meant. She just knew she felt like
crying. Like crying and screaming and sleeping. And when she felt herself start to shiver, she didn’t try to stop it.
“Hey.” Ethan’s arm fell around her shoulders. “I can practically see your breath. Come on.”
He tugged her to her feet and threw back the blankets on the remade bed and tucked her in like she was delicate and precious
and that just made her shiver even harder. Because Ethan... cared. It was such a strange concept. An unfamiliar feeling.
No wonder she didn’t trust it. It was like a foreign cell and her body was fighting it, certain that it must be there to kill
her.
But when he went to tuck the covers around her, she found herself reaching for his hand. It was warm while hers was cold,
and maybe that’s why he went still, suddenly uncertain.
“So am I sleeping on the floor tonight?” There was no cocky edge to the words, no teasing tone. He wasn’t Ethan Freaking Wyatt
anymore, and for the millionth time Maggie tried to reconcile this man with the one who had called her Marcie for the better
part of five long years.
Ethan wasn’t supposed to be warm and caring and kind. He was supposed to be a thin veneer with nothing at all beneath that
glossy surface. He was supposed to be less but he was actually more and Maggie hated him for it. But mostly she hated herself for being disappointed that someone the world thought was amazing
actually was.
He was also the only source of warmth in twenty thousand acres, and maybe her only ally for much, much farther. So Maggie
held up the covers and said, “Get in. I need all the body heat I can get.”