Holiday Romance ·

I should have turned the car around when the snow started falling sideways. But I didn’t. I told myself it was just weather. Temporary. Harmless. The kind of thing that looks worse than it is—like the way people always described him. The driveway was long, iron gates framing a house that looked too old to forgive secrets. Lights glowed softly inside, warm and golden, mocking the cold crawling up my spine. I killed the engine and sat there, fingers locked around the steering wheel. Three days, I reminded myself. Just three days. The front door opened before I could talk myself into leaving. He stood there, coat already on, like he’d been waiting. “Emily,” he said. The sound of my name in his voice—low, deliberate—did something unpleasantly intimate to my pulse. “I didn’t think you’d make it through the storm.” “I almost didn’t,” I said, stepping out into the snow. His eyes flicked over me. Not politely. Not casually. Like he was assessing damage. “You’re shaking,” he said. “I’m fine.” A lie. And he knew it. His hand closed around my wrist—not tight, not rough—but firm enough that I felt it all the way up my arm. “You’re staying,” he said quietly. Not a question. “The roads are already closed.” I swallowed. “Then I guess,” I said, forcing a smile, “you’re stuck with me. Something dark and unreadable passed through his expression. “I don’t mind,” he said. “I’ve never minded.” That was when I realized the storm wasn’t outside. It was already in the house.