Chapter 12
12
It takes longer than I anticipated to wrap things up at the office, and by the time I head out at seven, the snow is falling rapidly. There’s already an inch coating the ground, and the temperature has plummeted since I was last outside a few hours ago. A gust of cold air slashes my skin, and I thrust my hands into my pockets, digging for gloves, before realizing that, naturally, I’d forgotten them on my desk. My fingers are red and stiff when I reach my car, and it takes me a few extra seconds to fumble with the lock.
My cell phone starts vibrating the second I close the door behind me. Babs Cell. She’s already called twice in the past hour, and I’m struggling to keep the impatience out of my voice when I pick up.
“I’m on my way now,” I say without preamble. Even before she responds, I can sense my mom’s anxiety over the line.
“I-83 will be a mess,” she says after a beat. “The forecast keeps getting worse and I doubt they’ve salted the roads. Drive safely.”
“I will. See you soon.” I drop the phone onto the seat. But a sense of foreboding has already crept in, and by the time I reach the entrance to the highway ramp, my worst fears are realized. There’s a stretch of stopped cars as far ahead as I can see, the trail of red taillights indicating that traffic has come to a standstill. Somewhere ahead, a driver is leaning against their car horn, as though honking will magically fix everything.
I let out a groan of frustration. Why is this city so ill-equipped to handle bad weather? Two years ago, it snowed fourteen inches in New York, and everyone simply carried on, conducting business as usual. Here, all it takes is a dusting of snow to completely shut down the city.
Thirty minutes later, I’m still crawling up the highway, having only advanced two exits. My stomach lets out a low rumble of complaint. I wasn’t hungry after the cake tasting so I skipped dinner, but suddenly I’m famished. I’m about to reach across the seat to dig inside my purse for a granola bar when a beeping sound draws my attention to the dashboard. Glancing over, I notice the gas light is illuminated. Shit. I had meant to stop for gas before heading home tonight, but in my hurry to beat the snowstorm, I’d completely forgotten.
Grimacing, I plug my parents’ address into my GPS. According to Maps, I’m a little over eight miles away from their house. I should be able to make it there, though. Right?
But when I’ve barely moved an inch after another fifteen minutes have passed, I’m low-key panicking. There’s no way I’m going to make it home if I don’t stop for gas, and at least once I’m off the highway, I can take back roads home. It isn’t ideal in this weather, but it will have to do.
Somehow, I manage to switch over to the right lane and onto the exit ramp. According to my GPS, there’s a gas station half a mile away. But I’ve only made it about a minute down the road when I hear a sputtering from the engine. Miraculously, I make it to the side of the road before the car dies completely.
“ Fuck, ” I exhale, smacking the steering wheel with my palm. Closing my eyes, I lean back against the headrest as I mentally scroll through my options. I could try for an Uber but who knows how long it would take to reach me in this weather? It makes a lot more sense to call someone who is already nearby.
I reach for my phone, ready to text Asha, before remembering her family is quarantined with a stomach bug. Double fuck. Who else lives around here? So many of my friends lived downtown when I was in my early twenties, but now most of them have moved to the suburbs. For the first time, it occurs to me how lonely I am in a city that’s been home for most of my life.
My gut turns over as I realize there’s one person I can call. And despite how much I really, really don’t want to call him, I can’t help but remember the way he talked me off the edge during the freezer incident. Something about his presence eradicated the panic that normally accompanies claustrophobia. And right now, I’m desperate to feel that relief again.
No, what am I thinking? I am not some sort of damsel who needs to be rescued by a knight in shining armor, no matter how piercingly blue said knight’s eyes might be. I am a strong, independent woman who has been taking care of herself for years. I’ve never relied on a man before and I’m sure as hell not about to start now.
I’ve just resolved to get out and walk to the gas station when someone knocks on my window. The unexpected sound makes me jump, and when I look through the glass, three guys are peering back at me. No, peering isn’t the right word. Leering feels a lot more accurate.
One of them takes a swig from a bottle in a brown paper bag. Another guy in a knit cap takes a step closer to the car and bends to meet my eyes.
“Car trouble?” he smirks, and I immediately feel a prickle of fear. But if there’s anything I’ve learned from living in New York City, the one best way to ward off scary people is by making yourself even scarier.
“’Tis winter solstice, and I am preparing my cone of power to praise the gods. Spirits of air, earth, water, and fire, we thank thee! In this hour of greatest darkness, the light shall be reborn!” Then I bang on my dashboard and chant loudly, “The light shall be reborn! The light shall be reborn!”
The smirk melts off the guy’s face and he murmurs something to his friends, who back away slowly and then scramble off so quickly that one of them slips and falls on the ice-covered street.
With a resigned sigh, I call Graham. He picks up on the second ring.
“Hey,” he says, sounding a bit confused. “Did I forget we had an evening appointment?”
“Um, no. It’s nothing like that,” I say. “I just… wanted to see what you were up to?”
Graham is quiet for a moment. “What’s going on?” he asks, his voice low and laced with concern. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s great!” I say, attempting to ignore the way my voice cracks a bit on the last word. “It’s just, um… well. I’m still downtown. Traffic was bad so I pulled off the highway and then I… sort of ran out of gas.” I squeeze my eyes closed tightly as the embarrassing confession rolls off my tongue. Graham is silent for a minute, and I wait for him to start laughing. I mean, I would if I were him. I’m his wedding planner; I should be one of the most organized people in his life right now, not some walking disaster who can’t even manage to keep her gas tank filled. But the laughter doesn’t come. Instead, his tone is gruff.
“Where are you?”
“A few feet off the Cold Spring Lane exit.”
Graham exhales and relief floods his voice. “Okay, you’re not far from me. I’m house-sitting my grandmother’s place in Roland Park while she’s visiting a friend in Arizona. Drop me a pin and I’ll come pick you up.”
By the time Graham arrives fifteen minutes later, I’m visibly shivering, since no gas also means no heat.
Graham seems to have anticipated this. He appears with a plaid blanket in hand and wraps it around me as soon as I step out of the car. The plush fabric carries a hint of his now-familiar scent—a mix of warm spices and citrus—and I somehow resist the urge to bury my face in it.
“Thanks,” I mumble instead. I feel my face heat with mortification, both for the embarrassment of my current circumstances and gratitude for his kindness, despite the way I treated him this afternoon.
“Should we, um—go to the gas station and fill up one of those plastic buckets of gas? I’ve never actually had to do this before.”
Graham shakes his head. “You’re freezing, and there’s no way traffic on the highway is clearing up anytime soon. Let’s go back to the house for a bit, and once the snow stops, we’ll get everything sorted.”
There’s something about his presence, steady and calm and capable, that puts me at ease, and I feel the tension drain from my limbs. I nod and allow Graham to lead me to his car.
“Thank you,” I say quietly once we’ve clipped our seat belts. “This is so kind of you… especially after the way I acted today.” And then, to my complete and absolute horror, I feel a single, hot tear trickle down the side of my face.
Graham plucks a tissue from a travel holder in his door and hands it to me wordlessly. The kindness of the gesture pushes me over the edge, and I dissolve into loud, deeply unsexy sobs.
“Oh, God,” I choke out. “Could this be any more embarrassing?”
Graham places one hand over mine, and my skin tingles at the point of contact.
“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself. These things happen,” he says softly.
My head drops back against the seat rest and I close my eyes. But embarrassment has loosened every insecurity I’ve kept buried and suddenly I’m helpless to stop it from spilling out of me.
“I can’t believe I thought leaving the restaurant world for event planning was a good idea. My family was right—I’m too fickle, too impulsive, to ever be successful in this field. I’m not even organized enough to keep a full tank of gas in my car.”
Graham is quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is strained. “They said that?”
“Not in so many words, but that was the gist.”
Graham cuts me a sidelong glance and I notice he’s clutching the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles have gone white.
“They’re wrong,” he says tightly. “You’re incredible at what you do. You have an instinct for the way all the pieces fit together. The way you came up with a menu that would both satisfy guests and highlight the hotel? That takes talent. Not only that, but despite how uncomfortable you are working with me, you keep showing up every day. And I respect the hell out of you for it.”
His words knock the wind right out of me, the compliments seeping through my veins like honey.
“Thanks,” I say quietly. The mention of my parents reminds me that I need to call my mother. I fire off a quick text to her, letting her know that traffic is terrible, so I’m spending the night downtown with a friend. Her reply comes through almost instantly.
LOVE YOU. Be safe. See you in the morning.
I feel a pang of guilt knowing that she’s been sitting with her phone in her hand, waiting to hear from me. But at least she’ll be able to sleep tonight. It will probably be late when I get home, but with luck, I should be able to slip in without bothering her.
As for staying safe? Given the way his Graham-specific scent is filling the car, I’m increasingly less confident in my capacity for self-preservation.
A moment later, the car slows, and the hulking silhouette of Trudy’s house comes into view.
“Um, wow?” I say as we pull into the driveway. I anticipated that Trudy would have a lovely home—after all, the Black-Eyed Susan was wildly profitable in its heyday—but the house before me exceeds all expectations. The Colonial-style estate is as classic and elegant as its mistress, an enormous, redbrick affair trimmed with stately white columns. Black shutters frame the windows like eyelashes. Graham turns off the ignition and turns to face me.
“Before we go in, I should warn you about Genevieve.”
Fully warmed now, I release my grip on the blanket, allowing it to puddle around me.
“And Genevieve is… your grandmother’s stern and intensely loyal housekeeper who fertilizes the grass with the bodies of guests who didn’t appreciate her freshly squeezed lemonade?”
Graham’s lips twitch. “Not quite. She’s my grandmother’s King Charles spaniel. The breed is supposed to be sweet and lovable, but as far as I can tell, she hates all living creatures except Granny. I spend most of my time here avoiding her wrath.”
“Well, no worries. I love dogs.”
Graham grimaces. “Genevieve isn’t a dog. She’s a hell-beast who escaped the underworld.” Nevertheless, he opens the door and I follow him across the well-manicured path to the front porch.
The house is dark and silent when we step inside. But a moment later, I hear a low snarl echoing through the hallway. Graham flicks on the lights to reveal a fluffy white canine with caramel spots standing in the middle of the wooden floor. She looks like a stuffed animal, apart from the narrowed eyes and bared fangs.
“Avoid eye contact and mind your ankles.” Graham’s voice has dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “She seems to have developed an affinity for the taste of blood.”
Ignoring him, I walk toward Genevieve and crouch down in front of her.
“Hey, pretty lady,” I say softly. “Do you want some pets?”
Genevieve glares at me for a minute. But then she trots over slowly and rests her chin on my knee. I rub a hand over the top of her head, then drag it down the soft fur of her back. When I glance over my shoulder, Graham’s mouth is hanging ajar.
“Have I gone mad?” he asks incredulously. “She won’t even let me feed her. I have to put the food in her dish and then flee the room before she attacks.”
I shrug. “What can I say? I’m universally beloved.”
“So it seems.” An amused smile plays on his lips. “Well, now that you’ve bypassed Satan’s lap dog, let’s get you sorted. I can put on some tea.”
“No tea for me, thanks. I’ve never warmed to the taste of dirty water.”
Graham shakes his head ruefully.
“Right, then. I think I can rustle up some coffee.” He glances out the window. “It’s still coming down pretty hard. Looks like we might be stuck here for a while. We could… watch a film?”
“Sure,” I say, though the word is nearly drowned out by the low growl of my stomach.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “I never had dinner.”
Graham’s forehead creases with concern.
“You haven’t eaten?” he confirms. I shake my head.
“We’ll need to rectify that immediately.” He yanks open the refrigerator, then glances back at me apologetically.
“Granny left the fridge stocked, but I’m not much of a cook. We’ve got plenty of eggs. Can I offer you a cheese omelet?”
I grin at him. “Lucky for you, I’m a classically trained chef. Mind if I look around?”
Graham steps aside and I peer inside the fridge. Then I move through the kitchen, examining the contents of the fridge and pulling open kitchen cabinets to see what’s inside.
“Wow,” I say, as I survey the contents of the spice drawer. “Is there anything left in the Whole Foods spice department?”
Graham smiles. “My grandmother is an enthusiastic purveyor of seasoning.”
I extract a glass jar container of ground, green leaves. “ Za’atar ? Okay, Trudy.” I turn and fix my gaze on Graham. “Serious question: do I have your permission to take over this kitchen?”
“I would be honored,” he says sincerely.
“Excellent. You are in for a treat,” I say, as I begin pulling ingredients out from the cabinet.
Fifteen minutes later, my creation is sizzling on the stove. Graham pads back into the kitchen. He attempted to take Genevieve out for a walk, but after taking one look at the slush-covered lawn outside, she declined to leave the house and opted for pee pads in the laundry room instead.
After washing his hands in the sink, Graham takes a gratuitous inhale. “Wow, that smells incredible,” he says. “What are you making?”
He’s only a few feet away, and when I turn to look up at his face, I’m once again confronted with the dazzling blue of his eyes. My heart presses itself tightly against my sternum. Careful, Ali. I clear my throat, collecting myself.
“Shakshuka. It’s essentially eggs baked in a tomato and bell pepper sauce, with all kinds of seasoning. Traditionally served as breakfast, but like most breakfast foods, it’s even better at night.” I hold up the spice jar. “And a dusting of za’atar is the secret ingredient.”
“Happy we could oblige.”
I wipe my hands on a dish towel. “This needs to simmer for another few minutes and the garlic bread is still in the oven. Want to pick out something on Netflix while we wait?”
Graham jams his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Yeah, my grandmother doesn’t subscribe to any streaming services. She’s committed to watching films the old-fashioned way.”
“Seems on brand,” I agree.
I follow him into the living room, and he opens the cabinet under the television to reveal a meticulously organized collection of DVDs and VHS tapes. I lean closer, brushing my fingertips against the spines and pausing when I get to some familiar titles. Beauty and the Beast. Aladdin. The Little Mermaid.
“Were your grandparents big fans of the Disney Renaissance?” I ask. Color floods Graham’s cheeks and he shoves his glasses up his nose. “Those are mine. From my summers here when I was a kid.”
“That’s so cute! Which is your favorite? Your favorite Disney movie says a lot about a person, so I really want you to think carefully before answering.”
Graham skims the titles and then pulls a particularly battered-looking case off the shelf. He holds it out to me.
“ The Fox and the Hound ?” I gasp. “You’re lying. No one’s favorite movie is The Fox and the Hound. It is objectively Disney’s most boring film.”
“How dare you. It’s a touching story of friendship between two creatures who are pressured by society into being adversaries.”
“I’m forced to note the irony that your favorite movie is a snoozefest about dogs, yet you don’t seem to care much for Genevieve.”
“Again, Genevieve is not a dog. And I must insist you show some respect when discussing one of Disney’s greatest cinematic achievements.”
I shake my head. “If you say so. I’ve never managed to stay awake through the whole thing, Benedict, but maybe you’ll be able to change my mind.”
Graham’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “So, we’re back to Benedict, then?”
“Your movie selection speaks volumes,” I reply. “Though it is, admittedly, in character.” Just then, the kitchen timer dings. “Why don’t you turn it on while I plate dinner? At least the spices will be stimulating.”
A few minutes later, we’re sitting side by side on the tartan sofa, scooping up bites of shakshuka with garlic bread.
“Wow,” Graham says. “This is incredible.”
“Why, thank you,” I say. “It’s the perfect weather for it too.” We both glance out the window. Outside, the mixture of snow and ice is falling heavier than ever. Neither one of us says it, but it’s looking less likely that I’ll be leaving here any time soon.
Thirty minutes into the film, I am forced to admit that I am hooked by the story. When the hound’s owner is hit by a train, I slap a hand across my mouth, though I’m surprised by the sound of a muffled whimper. It’s upsetting of course, but I didn’t think I was crying. That’s when I realize the sound isn’t coming from me. Turning my head, I see Graham’s face is streaked with tears.
“Oh my God, are you weeping ?” I ask incredulously. “Aren’t you supposed to be British? Is this even allowed?”
Graham chokes out a wet sound. “Chief was chasing Tod,” he protests. “The fox and the hound’s friendship is now in total disarray.” His face is inches from mine, his damp eyes so breathtakingly blue behind the frames of his glasses. The sight of it sends me hurling back in time, the memory of him looking at me the same way all those years ago now imprinted upon the present. And with a flicker of horror, I realize that I am overwhelmed with renewed affection for this man. We’re sitting so close to each other that when he shifts, his denim-clad thigh brushes against mine, sending a spark of electricity up my leg.
His gaze snags on mine, and the air whooshes from my chest. My body pulls toward him like it’s being drawn by magnetic force. His gaze drops to my mouth. And the world comes to a standstill.
I’m not sure which of us moves first. But a moment later, I’m clutching the nape of his neck, and his hands are at my waist. And like a collision you see coming but are powerless to stop, our lips crash into each other.