One Snowy Night (Heartbreaker Bay #2.5)(9)

He handed her a towel, but she shook her head. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, if fine is drenched and cold,” he said. “Take it. It’s not the same one I used on Carl.”

“I wouldn’t care about that,” she said. “But you might have to stop and put on chains soon and you’ll need a towel for yourself.”

“We’re not going to need chains,” he said. “I’m in four--wheel drive and we’ve got good tires. Now use the damn towel, you’re dripping all over the place.”

As he knew it would, this galvanized her into action and she ran the towel over herself in jerky motions. When she was done, she was still shivering, and after a hesitation, she pulled off her damp sweater.

This left her in a white camisole and aforementioned white lace bra, neither of which were all that significant.

“You going to stare at me all night or get us back on the road?” she asked coolly.

Gentle . . . With that word echoing in his head, he aimed the heater vents her way and pulled them back onto the highway.

Things had gone downhill in the few minutes they’d been stopped. The snow was really accumulating now, making the highway slick, forcing him to slow down. Way down.

“At this rate, it’s gonna take all night to get there,” she said, sounding worried.

Most likely she didn’t want to spend any more time with him than necessary. But it wasn’t like this was how he’d seen himself spending Christmas Eve either.

In the very loud silence of the truck, his belly grumbled, reminding him he’d missed dinner. And lunch. He’d had breakfast but it felt like it’d been days since then.

He heard Rory rustling around and ignored her until a sandwich appeared beneath his nose. “No, thanks,” he said.

“Take it.”

“I’m good.”

“Yeah, well, your stomach says otherwise,” she said.

“I’m not eating your food,” he said, refusing to take the dinner she’d so clearly packed for herself.

She let out a sound of female frustration. “Tell me something. Are you always this stubborn or is it something special you save just for me?”

“I meant I’m not eating your dinner,” he clarified.

“I learned how to share in kindergarten. You should try it sometime.”

He blew out a sigh. “Fine. I’ll take half if you eat the other half.”

She looked surprised and then shrugged. “Deal.”

Starving to the bone, he wolfed through his portion of her admittedly delicious PB&J and then watched as she ate only half of her half, and then gave the last quarter to Carl.

His heart squeezed as Carl chomped his portion down in one bite, licked his huge chops, and gave her an adoring gaze.

Rory laughed and then pulled something else from her bag of magic tricks—-a thermos.

“Hot chocolate,” she said, pouring Max half of what she had. “Careful, it’s still hot.”

“Thanks.” He’d known he’d be making this drive tonight and he hadn’t given provisions a single thought. After all, he had an emergency kit in the back and he was good.

But she was better. She’d clearly given this lots of thought and was prepared, and it made him wonder why she was going home in the first place. He knew she hadn’t been there in years. “I was surprised to find that you were going to Tahoe,” he said, fishing.

She sipped her hot chocolate. “Should’ve packed marshmallows,” she murmured.

He had the oddest urge to stop and get her some but they were nowhere near a store.

She drained her cup and had a chocolate mustache. Her tongue came out and licked her lips with great relish and he nearly ran them off the road.

Startled, she glanced over at him.

He stared resolutely straight ahead at the road—-or what he could see of it—-wondering what the hell this odd reaction to her was. Uncalled for. Stupid. Very stupid.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Terrific. You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t ask one.”

He resisted rolling his eyes. “Why are you going home this year?”

She shrugged. “My family and I have a rocky relationship. Mostly because I’ve flaked on them, a lot. I’m . . . undependable. I wanted to change that.” She paused. “If I can.”

Max thought of the life she led now, going to school, working hard. “You seem pretty dependable to me.”

“Yes, well, thankfully things change. -People change.” She hesitated again, and he realized she was weighing how much she wanted to tell him. “I’m not sure my family gets that,” she finally said. “I’ve let them down.”

He was sympathetic to that. He’d been a punk--ass teenager himself. If his family judged him off that * he’d once been, they wouldn’t like him very much either. “Then and now are different,” he said. “They’ll see that.”

She didn’t look convinced and he couldn’t blame her. Because even he’d been judging her off something she’d done in the past. Which made him a first--class jerk.

“You do realize the gas pedal is the narrow one on the right,” she said.

He glanced over at her. “Excuse me?”