Chapter 3 #2
“Quick question, though. You brought your badge with you,” I point out. I look him up and down, paying more attention to the ski jacket, the blue jeans, and the thin grey sweater peeking out from beneath his coat. “You have your gun?”
“This is my vacation, too, Ms...”
That wasn’t a ‘no’, I notice. I look him over again, not noticing any obvious bulges—which is a relief on one hand, a bit of a disappointment on the other—before realizing that while I know his name now, I haven’t offered him mine.
“Oh. Right. It’s Noelle. I’m Noelle.”
“A Noelle being an angel for me at Christmas. Seems rather…” Patrick purses his lips. “Serendipitous.”
If he says so. “Come on in. Let’s get you out of the cold, and I’ll show you your room.”
Patrick seems like a perfect gentleman—and after what happened to me, I’m almost more suspicious of a nice guy than an out-and-out perv. It’s like I’m waiting for him to grab and grope, to leer and make me uncomfortable.
Only he doesn’t, and instead of being glad that I got snowed-in with a good guy, I show him the spare room, then hurriedly retreat to mine.
I packed enough snacks that I don’t go to bed hungry.
Too aware of how dangerous men can be, I locked myself in the room after storing the champagne away for another day.
Drinking with a handsome man in the same cabin as me?
Yeah, no. Not a good idea, Noelle, especially when he’s only one door down.
I expect that I’ll get up in the morning, the cell service will be back—or, at least, the snow will have stopped, allowing the roads to clear eventually—and then we can find out who really is supposed to be in this chalet.
Only the storm has ideas of its own, and on the twenty-third of December, I wake up, change into fresh clothes and boots, try to head outside, and discover that he wasn’t kidding when he said the forecast called for at least a foot of fresh snow.
It’s probably a good sixteen inches already, and the snow is still coming down.
To make matters worse, my phone has no service, no internet, and the idea of having a handsome cop tagging along on my Christmas vacation… it seems a little more daunting and not as imperative—and, okay, exciting—as it did last night.
I haven’t been on a date since that fateful party.
Being alone with a guy? For the first year, I couldn’t tolerate it.
The panic and anxiety were terrible, and though I’ve gotten better thanks to Dr. Preston, and the last year was even more successful—though hearing about my ex-colleagues dropping like flies definitely helped—I kept waiting for the same nerves to overtake me last night.
They didn’t. Partly because I trusted the lock, but also because I…
I don’t know. In a way, I also trusted the decent, friendly vibes I got from Patrick.
He seems like a good guy, and that’s probably how I find myself spending most of the afternoon and evening with him, sitting at the small four-seater table in the chalet’s kitchen.
It wasn’t on purpose. In fact, after I slipped into the bathroom, showered, and changed into something more comfortable since there was no way I was heading out into the snow, I ate breakfast, then hid out in my room.
I couldn’t stay in there forever, though, and I didn’t want to.
I’m on vacation, too, and after I heard footsteps out in the hall, down the stairs, and probably milling around the kitchen, I took a deep breath and followed him to the living room.
Like me, Patrick checked on the forecast, nodding to himself when he saw that the snow hadn’t let up yet.
He apologized again—I brushed him off—and we both gazed at the Christmas tree for a moment.
It wasn’t as awkward as I thought it would be, though I decided that we might as well make the best of our Christmas Eve Eve by getting the fire going, sitting at the table while we shared the cheeseboard first, then my favorite butter cookies as we sipped discreetly on some of the remaining champagne.
By the firelight that reached into the kitchen, I learned that he’s older than I thought; he’s thirty-eight to my twenty-six when I bluntly ask.
He is from Springfield, like I expected, and his badge is for the SPD.
He laughed a husky sort of laugh that sent shivers down my spine when I admitted that I live in Springfield, too, saying something like this was fated to happen.
Two lonely souls heading up to the mountains to be by themselves before some higher power stepped in, bringing us together…
shit. I’d love to blame the glass of champagne I had between snacking for the way my face went red at that thought, but the truth is that it was so easy to talk to Patrick about everything and nothing.
After all, it’s not like we had anything better to do, and when the snow finally slowed down mid-day, I already accepted that he would be here for another night at least.
As a thank you, Patrick cooked dinner for us using whatever he found in the pantry.
It was simple—spaghetti in sauce with garlic bread on the side—but hearty.
It went down well with the soda stocked by the resort in the fridge, and after I insisted on washing the dishes, we were back at the table, another glass of champagne poured for each of us.
By the time Patrick brought up the topic of Christmas, mine was nearly empty while my guest hadn’t seemed to touch his at all. Instead, he smiled at me as though I had all of his attention as he asked me what I wanted for Christmas this year.
I shrug. “Nothing really. My parents are taking a holiday cruise. Coming up to the mountains for a little peace was my gift to myself. Them paying for the week was their gift.”
“And that’s it?” He seems almost incredulous. “What about a list? Did you ask Santa for something to go under your tree?”
Why bother? All I wanted was five men to pay for hurting me, and they have.
Obviously, I can’t tell him that. So, hoping that the short answer will be enough to change the subject, I say simply, “No.”
“Why not? You’re allowed to want things at Christmas.” His eyes all but sparkle as he leans forward, still ignoring his champagne glass, as his eyes are locked on me. “Life isn’t fair, Noelle, but isn’t Christmas supposed to be?”
Now, he’s not wrong, but that’s not what has my breath catching in my throat.
Those words… they’re my words. Almost exactly what I had written in a journal so private that no one else has ever read it, and a stranger from my hometown just parroted my own words back at me.
And I’m not sure if it’s one big coincidence—or if being trapped in this mountain chalet with Officer Patrick North has fucked me up this Christmas more than I already was.