Snowbound with the Billionaire Single Dad

Chapter 3: The Man Who Hates Christmas

The heat embraced me in a way that I could almost touch it.

I crossed the threshold, barely managing to keep upright. The difference between the freezing cold of the outside world and the inside heat was extremely high, almost like a violent intoxication, my body could not cope with it. I stood there like a snowman slowly melting, the floor, which I presumed to be marble, was very cold, and I shook so much that my teeth made noise.

The man who definitely wasn't my hero but at least was my reluctant rescuer, pushed the door behind me with a calm motion that somehow made it sound even louder than if he had slammed it. He did not lay a finger on me. No offering to take my coat, no asking whether I was fine or not. Just staring at me as if I were some puzzle he had not yet found the right way to solve.

“You need to get out of those clothes,” he said, in a tone that was flat and clinical. “You’re hypothermic.”

I tried to reply, but my mouth did not cooperate. The trembling intensified; my entire body was shaking like I was having a seizure, and I tried to hug myself but it did not work. Nothing worked.

He let out a low and annoyed sound, as if he thought I was only making things hard for him. Then, he sprang into action, quick and efficient, yanking my scarf off my face with fingers that were surprisingly soft considering how cold his voice was.

"Can you walk?" he inquired.

I gave a nod, but as soon as I attempted to move my knee gave in. His palm quickly moved and seized my elbow, making me feel secure without drawing me in. Maintaining space even while assisting. Everything about him exuded control, from the impeccable tailoring of his black sweater to the way he carried himself as if nothing on earth could sphere him.

“Here,” he said, and took me along a corridor that seemed to last eternally.

As we went I grasped broken visions. High ceilings. Dark wood. Windows which probably had amazing sights when they weren’t just revealing the storm. All this was very nice in that super pricey way which made me feel tiny and unwelcome even while coping with a cold.

We came before a room, a bedroom furnished in grays and whites and wholly devoid of any sign that somebody actually lived there. He pushed me towards the bathroom.

“In the cabinet are towels. Have a warm shower, not hot. Your skin cannot take the temperature change.” He stood for a moment in the doorway, still not facing me. “I will put dry clothes outside the door.”

“Thanks,” I barely said with my teeth chattering.

He didn’t say a word. Just went out, shutting the door behind him with the same exact and careful manner.

I was there for a moment, looking at my image in the huge mirror above the sink. I resembled a corpse. The iciness of the snow was still present on my head, and it was running down my face in little streams. My mouth had a grayish-blue color. My skin was so whitish that it was nearly transparent.

In my mind was Marcus’s voice: You are not strong enough to face the hard things.

“Shut up,” I told my reflection, my dead ex, the universe in general. “I’m alive. That counts for something.”

Undressing was a very slow process. My hands were unhelpful, they could not hold the zipper of my coat or press the buttons of my jeans. I felt like crying because of the aggravation but I was also too worn out, too cold, too everything. At last, I just did it and by force, I was in my underwear with my whole body covered in goose bumps and bruises of which I was not even aware of.

The shower was one of those rain fall types that were probably worth more than my car. I set it at lukewarm like he wanted and got under the water.

Initially, the water was like needles, painful and cutting sharp, but gradually, very slowly, it was feeling coming back to my body. My fingers felt numb as if electricity was passing through them, and they were also getting hot. The shaking that came with the cold started to go away, and that was the time when I was so tired that I thought after the melted ice and snow, I just might well go down the drain.

I have no idea how long I was there. It took a long time for the color of my skin to change back to pink. It also took a long time for my thoughts to start thinking right rather than just screaming danger danger danger over and over.

I nearly died tonight. In fact, I had nearly died and the only reason I hadn't died was that I had been too obstinate to give up and too furious to allow the ghost of Marcus to be right about me.

After a long time, I finally turned off the water and came out to find a pile of clothes stacked nicely on the counter. Men’s clothes. A warm thermal shirt, sweatpants with a drawstring, thick woolen socks. All of them were too big for me but they were clean and warm and they were probably worth more than my whole wardrobe back in Boston.

I put them on, rolled up the sleeves and legs of the pants, and looked at myself in the mirror once again. I looked silly. Like a little girl dressing up in her dad's closet. But I was alive and warm and that was enough.

When I came out, the bedroom was empty. I could hear the crackling of a fire in a fireplace that I had not noticed before, and someone he had made the bed with white sheets and a gray comforter. Everything was perfect and untouched, like a hotel room.

I should have climbed into that bed and passed out for twelve hours. My body was screaming for it. But my mind was still wired, adrenaline and shock keeping me awake, and I couldn’t stand the thought of being alone in this cold, beautiful room with nothing but my own spiraling thoughts for company.

So I left.

The hallway was dim, lit by subtle lights along the baseboards. I followed the sound of a fire, the promise of warmth and life, and found myself in what had to be the main living area.

It was massive. Floor to ceiling windows that probably showcased the mountains but now just showed the storm. A fireplace big enough to stand in. Furniture that looked like it belonged in a magazine spread. And absolutely nothing, not a single thing, that suggested Christmas was a few days away.

No tree. No decorations. No lights or garlands or any of the cheerful clutter that usually invaded every surface this time of year.

It was like walking into a beautiful, expensive void.

The man stood by the windows, his back to me, holding a glass of what looked like whiskey. He didn’t turn when I entered but his shoulders tensed slightly, acknowledging my presence.

“You should be resting,” he said.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Try harder.”

The rudeness should have stung but I was too tired to care. I moved closer to the fire instead, holding my hands out to the warmth. The socks he’d given me were absurdly soft against the cold floor.

“I’m Elise,” I said after a long silence. “Elise Hart. In case you wanted to know the name of the person you saved.”

“I didn’t save you. I let you in. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

He finally turned, and I got my first real look at him in proper light. He was younger than I’d first thought, mid thirties maybe, with the kind of face that would be devastating if it ever softened. Sharp jaw. Straight nose. Those impossible blue eyes that looked like ice and winter and nothing warm.

But there were shadows under those eyes. Lines of stress around his mouth. He held himself like someone carrying weight no one else could see.

“You can’t stay here,” he said, and I recognized it as the same thing he’d said at the door. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as me.

“You already said I could. One night, remember?”

“One night. Then you leave.”

“Fine with me. I have a cabin waiting.” I glanced toward the windows, at the storm that showed no signs of stopping. “Assuming the roads are clear.”

“They won’t. Not for days.”

Something cold settled in my stomach. “Days?”

“The weather service is calling it the worst storm in twenty years. The mountain roads are completely impassable.” He took a drink, his expression never changing. “Which means you’re stuck here whether either of us likes it or not.”

I should have panicked. Should have worried about being trapped with a hostile stranger in the middle of nowhere. But I was too wrung out, too exhausted, and honestly, too relieved to be alive to care.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I know you don’t want company. I’ll stay out of your way as much as I can.”

“See that you do.”

He moved past me toward the hallway, cold and dismissive, clearly done with this conversation. But something made me speak again, maybe exhaustion, maybe the last dregs of adrenaline, maybe just the desperate need to understand why someone would be so aggressively alone on Christmas Eve.

“Do you live here by yourself?”

He stopped. Didn’t turn around. Just stood there with his back to me, rigid and still.

When he finally spoke, his voice was even colder than before.

“That’s none of your business, Miss Hart. I suggest you remember that while you’re under my roof.”

Then he disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, leaving me alone with the fire and the storm and the crushing weight of silence in a house that felt more like a tomb than a home.

—-

I woke up to the feeling of being watched.

Not in a creepy way, more like the weight of someone’s attention pressing against my sleep until my eyes dragged themselves open. The room was bright with snow light, that particular kind of brightness that only comes when the sun reflects off fresh powder. For a moment I didn’t remember where I was.

Then it all came rushing back. The crash. The storm. The cold man with ice eyes who’d let me in like he was doing me a favor instead of saving my life.

I shifted my head on the pillow and almost had a heart attack.

Up on the bed stood a little one. A child, probably around five to six, with dark hair partly in a tussle and the exact same impossibly blue eyes as the man from last night. He was in dinosaur pajamas and was holding something close to his chest.

We were looking at each other.

He didn’t utter a word. He didn’t smile. He just kept looking at me with those serious eyes as if he were trying to ascertain whether I was a real person or just a figment of his imagination.

“Hi,” I softly greeted, attempting not to give him a scare. My voice was coarse due to sleep and perhaps also because of all the yelling I had done in the car yesterday. “I’m Elise,” I continued.

Nothing happened. Not even a blink from my side.

I slowly got up, and while doing that I also pushed my hair out of my face. I guess I was looking frightening, all messy and wild, dressed in the oversized clothes of another person. The boy stayed where he was, didn’t run away or yell for his dad, nor did he do any of the common things children would do in the presence of a stranger.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

He first looked at the object in his hands, which I now understood to be a piece of paper, then at me. Still no word from him. However, a very slight change occurred in his face, as if he was making a choice.

Then he gave the paper to me.

I took it slowly, as if it was really a valuable thing. This paper turned out to be a crayon drawing done by a very young child who was not very skilled yet. Three stick figures were drawn. One was tall and had dark scribbles for hair. One was small and also had dark hair. The other was in between them with yellow hair and a smile.

The tall figure and the small figure were holding the middle figure’s hands.

My throat went tight.

“Did you draw this?” I asked.

He nodded. Once. Definitive.

“It’s beautiful.” I traced the yellow haired figure with one finger. “Is this supposed to be me?”

Another nod.

I looked at him, at this silent little boy who’d drawn a picture of his family with a stranger included like I belonged there, and something cracked open in my chest. Something that had been locked down tight since I left Boston.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I asked again, softer this time.

He opened his mouth. I closed it. Looked toward the door like he was checking if anyone was coming. Then he leaned in close, so close I could see the individual lashes around those blue eyes, and whispered a single word so quietly I almost missed it.

“Noah.”