Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
WENDY
The air thickens with anticipation, gray storm clouds burgeoning overhead. In the distance, Alpha Ridge’s peaks vanish beneath snow and cloud. Looks like they’re getting absolutely hammered. According to this morning’s weather report, we’re next.
Couldn’t have picked a worse time for the bakery van to go in for a recall. But the email from the mechanic made it sound important—like driving anywhere other than his shop would be taking my life into my own hands.
Maybe I should’ve asked for Wallace’s help. But—
Ugh. I don’t know when it comes to that guy.
I slide more pie boxes and canned goods into the back of my hatchback, biting my bottom lip in concentration. Not nearly enough room. My phone vibrates in my jeans pocket, and I pull it out, reading the screen: “Heavy snowfall expected by this evening. Avoid travel where possible.”
Great, I grumble, my normal sunshine cracking. “It’ll be fine. Everything will work out.” I hum “Let It Snow,” choosing cheeriness over anger to irritate fate.
Suddenly, a menacing black truck pulls up next to me, heavy metal blaring. My eyes dart to the driver—black hoodie, baseball cap, mirrored shades. I gasp, clutching my heart.
He laughs, lowering his sunglasses and smiling. “You scare easy, Sweet Potato.”
“Nice disguise, Jason Bourne.”
He shrugs, voice nonchalant. “Beats being mobbed at the pumpkin display.”
I raise my eyebrows. “This is your way of not getting noticed?”
He nods.
“For the record, it’s backfiring spectacularly. You couldn’t look more sus if you tried.”
“Don’t tempt me,” he growls.
Apparently, my grocery buddy moonlights as a getaway driver.
“Follow me to the bakery to drop these off, and then we’ll continue to the grocery store?”
“Sounds like a plan.” He doesn’t sound especially enthusiastic.
“You can keep this for now,” I say, stepping forward and tossing him the notebook where I keep my grocery list.
He surveys it for a moment. “You’re lucky I like carbs.”
The store is crowded with familiar faces amid their holiday shopping. “Hello, Mrs. Armstrong,” I smile toward the elderly lady with big cat-eye glasses as we head down the baking aisle.
“Not sure two carts will be enough,” I say, stopping in front of the flour section and eyeing the twenty-five and fifty-pound bulk bags on the bottom shelf.
“You’re a prepper on top of everything?” he jokes as I point toward a fifty-pound bag.
“I feel like one the way the meteorologists keep hyping up this storm.”
“First time I ever heard of an atmospheric river,” he grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck carefully so he doesn’t displace his hoodie. “And it doesn’t sound good.”
“Whatever comes our way, rest assured we won’t starve.”
“That’s obvious,” he mutters as I direct him to a twenty-five-pound sack of sugar next.
“I should bring you with me more often, Slapshot. You make this easy.”
He eyes me through the sunglasses, face caught somewhere between disdain and surprise.
Behind us, a voice whispers, “Is that Slapshot Lemoille?”
Wallace’s face tightens, and he pretends to study the marshmallows as they pass. I glare a warning. Thankfully, they pass without making a scene.
Then, I tease, “You always like your marshmallows pink and purple?”
He eyes the bag again, sets it down too quickly. “Can’t tell you the last time I was in a grocery store like this. Really putting myself out here for you. Least you could do is show a little appreciation.”
“That’s what the pies are for,” I say with a radiant smile.
“Good thing they’re so tasty,” he murmurs. “Especially the sweet potato.”
Heat blooms across my cheeks as I reach past him for a bag of chocolate chips. His hand comes up at the same moment, and our fingers brush.
Zing! The little snap of electricity can’t be ignored. But still I try, and so does he, clearing his throat loudly and looking away.
At checkout, the cashier goes goggly-eyed, narrowing her gaze and drooling. “Mr. Lemoille, what an honor! Can I get a selfie with you?”
Wallace steps forward uncomfortably, pushing the second full cart. His eyes meet mine. They say, I told you so. He shifts his weight uneasily, opening his mouth.
I cut him off. “Sorry, he’s on pie duty,” I say to the cashier. “Now, can we get this show on the road before the weather gets any worse?”
The wind howls around the eaves of the building, and thick, fat snowflakes slam against the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.
A middle-aged man with a brown beard helps pack the copious pile of groceries, nodding at Wallace without getting starstruck. “You two better be careful out there. We’re about to shut the whole store. Forecast is downright dangerous. So, stay off the roads.”
I don’t doubt it, looking at the white, soupy atmosphere. The lights of the grocery store flicker. “That’s all we need is the power out,” he adds, shaking his head.
On the way out, Wallace and I push our carts side by side. “This is looking really angry. You think you’ll be able to drive in it?”
He glances up, caught in the swirl overhead. “We’ll give it a shot. If the visibility gets much worse, we can stay at my new cabin. It’s closer than either of our places.”
I open my mouth to protest, struck by how it will rearrange my best-laid plans. But it’s not Wallace’s fault. He’s helping me. As I look up, peering into the thickening storm, I can’t deny the wisdom in his plan.
I try to stay positive, reframe this as an adventure, even as my stomach knots. Bedding over at Wallace’s is unthinkable. After all, he’s the guy I dislike most in this town—after George. But even more than that, he’s danger … all caps.
The kind that comes with deep chest growls, carved muscles, and a square-cut jawline felted with afternoon stubble. The kind that smells like pine sap and sandalwood and looks at me, every now again, just for an instant, like there’s more to this.
The drive out of the parking lot is nail-biting. I hold my breath, trying to remain calm. But the wipers are in a losing battle with powder, visibility near zero.
He squints, leaning forward, using his hand to wipe away the condensation that keeps building on the inside. I help with my mittens, our fingers brushing a few times. Sparks flying even through wool.
“This is ridiculous. Can you even see where the road is?” he grumbles, concentrating hard.
Fortunately, his hands-free GPS acts as a guide, voice steady and calm as the instructions that finally land us in his garage. “Thank God,” I say, letting myself breathe again.
“Whatever can stay in the truck tonight, let’s leave it. This is getting so bad. Not sure the power will hold.”
The garage is huge and immaculate. Shelves of tools line the walls, interspersed with shiny signs featuring classic cars. A couple of vehicles sit to one side, swathed carefully in gray fabric.
I step out of the garage, peer up through the lacy, swirling storm, opening my mouth and catching more than a few snowflakes on my tongue. “But it is beautiful! Quiet, peaceful, makes me feel holiday cozy.”
He groans. “Great! I’m snowed in with Mrs. Claus.”
Inside, he flips a light switch and nothing happens.
“Dammit. Was afraid of this.”
He pulls out his phone, turns on the flashlight, and I do the same, surveying the room.
Instead of the big celebrity mansion I envisioned—the rustic version of MTV Cribs—it’s cozy, restrained, and small. Like one-bedroom, one-bathroom small. The garage feels bigger. My throat tightens as I side-eye the handsome hockey player.
“So this is where celebrities hibernate?” My breath clouds white in the chilly air.
He frowns. “Only the antisocial ones.”
Cedar and motor oil thread the air, honest to goodness. I can almost feel his business card in my hand again. A mechanic. Who’d’ve guessed?
“This feels authentic. Like the real ‘you,’ Wallace. It’s kind of nice.”
“The real me?” he grumbles, shaking his head. Silence fills the room for a moment, his mouth working with what to say. Instead, he mutters, “Better get the generator going, break into the woodpile. That real enough for you?”
I laugh. “Yes, it is.”
Within minutes, the lights come on, the generator hums, and the faucet works. I walk around the cabin, finding one bathroom, one bedroom, one bed. My pulse races.
“There’s a couch, too, Wendy,” I scold myself. “No reason to start freaking out.” But the throb pulsing through me is anything but “freaking out.”
By the time he stomps snow from his boots by the front door, homemade hot cocoa simmers in a saucepan, and I whip up fresh, homemade cream.
I grab two large, stoneware mugs from the cabinet above, filling and garnishing them with dollops of cream and chocolate shavings. He nods his approval.
“It’s good,” I say, digging my finger into the cream, jonesing for another taste.
But he grabs my hand first, licking it clean. My knees nearly give out. Definitely not OSHA-approved kitchen behavior.
He arches an eyebrow. “Thought you were offering. Wrong thing to do?”
I laugh nervously, pulse racing, body enflamed with a hum like desire. “Is it good?”
“Excellent,” he says, eyes glinting in the candlelight, snow-dusted hoodie and baseball cap still in place.
“Halloween’s over, Slapshot. No need to stay in costume.” He hesitates for a moment, as if he’s weighing his choices before tossing them onto a nearby flat-topped steamer trunk.
We head to the couch with our mugs, sitting in front of the cold hearth. The lights flutter, and I hold my breath.
“No worries, Sweet Potato. Generator’s ready to go if needed. You’re safe and warm with me.”
Safe and warm. Two things I never thought I’d feel with this man, and yet I do.
“For good measure,” I say, reaching into my purse and pulling out a candle. “Lighter?”
He laughs. “You seriously carry candles in your purse?”
“Never know when coziness calls.” I run my thumb over the label. “Cinnamon and sandalwood.” Our love child in candle form.
Now, he roars with laughter, shaking his head. “Wendy, you never stop surprising me.”
“That a good or bad thing?” I ask.
“Dunno yet.” He presses his lips together, like he’s holding back. But then, he stands up halfway, fishes a lighter from his pocket, and lights the candle, like a peace offering.
Sitting back, he eyes the flame, confessing, “Nothing I hate more than being the constant center of attention. It gets so damn old, not being able to go anywhere, do anything like I used to. I feel like a product instead of a person. So thank you for sticking up for me at the grocery store.”
“Of course,” I say, letting his words sink in. “That’s why I like Thanksgiving and Christmas so much. I know they seem like stupid holidays. But there’s no other time of the year that people really see each other—family, flaws, and all.”
His gaze shifts to my face, studying me. Taking me in, pressing into me, like he’s really seeing me for the first time. The generator sputters, and I gasp. Then, the cabin goes dark again.
“What a night,” he says testily. “Better get a fire going.”
“Can I help?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You a pyromaniac or something?”
“Never made one before, actually.”
“Your dad didn’t teach you?” he asks.
I sigh. “My dad was never home much. A total workaholic. Didn’t have time for his family … except on the holidays.”
His face softens, like everything has just fallen into place. “So, holidays mean safety, peace, security to you?”
I pause. “Never thought about it that way, but I think you’re onto something.”
“Makes sense,” he says, leading me toward the hearth where he shows me how to add kindling, build a tepee of smaller logs. “You want to light it?”
“Sure,” I say, warmth rushing through me as he hands me the lighter, and our fingers brush again. Only this time, they linger, like our stare. “You smell like sugar and trouble,” he murmurs.
I swallow hard. “And you still look like a man allergic to joy.”
“Maybe it’s time I stop pretending winter’s the enemy,” he says.
I nod. “Maybe tonight, the world’s worth seeing.”
A gust slams against the side of the cabin, unable to touch our inner warmth. Snow hammers the windows, looking for entry. But nothing can steal the comfort in this room.
One blizzard. One bed. One chance to melt a Grinch.