A Cross-Country Christmas(47)

<party hat emoji> <dancing lady emoji>

<punching fist emoji>





No, Maddie.

This is bad. This is very, VERY bad.





What’s so bad about it?





There are two people in the world who have broken my heart— My dad and Will Sinclair.





<sad emoji>





I just can’t. Not again. <sad face emoji>





But what if he doesn’t break it?

What if he FIXES IT...?

And then he protects it like it was his most precious treasure as long as you both shall live?

<British guard emoji> <hammer emoji> <diamond ring emoji>





<eyeroll emoji>





You like him, right?

You never like anyone. . .

I give you permission to see where this goes. And if he does break your heart, I’ll be there to pick up the pieces and glue it back together. . .

And kick his <peach emoji>





<Laughing emoji>

Thanks, Maddie <heart emoji>

Now go win Dylan’s mom over with your undeniable charm. . .

And your great big heart.





It shall be done.





<heart emoji>





Chapter 22





Road Trip—Day Five





The goal was to make it to Kansas, but ten miles from the state line, after a full day of driving, they blew a tire and nearly spun out on the highway.

While Lauren panicked and started looking up numbers for tow trucks in the area, Will hopped out like it was no big deal. In the side mirror, she watched him open the hatch and remove the spare tire along with a bunch of tools she didn’t know the names of. Was he going to change the tire right here on the highway?

She exited the car. “It’s getting late. Shouldn’t we call a tow truck?”

“Nah,” he said coolly. “I’ll change the tire and we’ll drive to the next town. See if we can get a new tire. They probably won’t be able to do anything with it till tomorrow morning anyway.”

She sighed. “At this rate, we’re never going to get home.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.” He squinted up at her and winked. “You wanna learn how to change a tire?”

“What makes you think I don’t already know?”

He stopped and looked at her. “Wait. Do you?”

“No, but you assumed I didn’t.”

He held out the wrench. “I’d happily move out of the way and let you take care of this.”

She feigned insult. “Nope. You just assumed I couldn’t because I’m a girl.”

“That’s not true,” he said. Then, after the perfect pause for comedic timing, “I assumed you couldn’t because you’re a woman.” He affixed the wrench to the lug nut and muscled it loose.

Lauren gasped. “That is totally sexist! You won’t even let me drive the car.” She folded her arms over her chest and stared him down.

He stopped cranking and conceded. “That’s a good point.”

“So, I can drive?”

He went back to cranking. “Absolutely not.”

She groaned and shook her head, and he got back to work. About half an hour later, they were driving again. She had to admit, his competence in a crisis made him—(grumble) sexy—which was saying something given her attraction for him was already a seventeen out of ten.

He found a repair shop and dropped the car. Thankfully the store wasn’t closed yet, and the owner could provide them a ride to a nearby hotel. Unlike most of the places they’d stayed so far on this trip, this hotel would best be described as “swanky.” The lobby looked like a film set, decked out with crystal chandeliers, giant Christmas wreaths, a tall, perfectly decorated tree and white twinkle lights that made their entrance feel dramatic.

“Wow,” Lauren said under her breath.

“This one’s on me,” Will said.

They walked up to the counter, and Lauren found herself praying there were rooms available—she could only imagine how nice the beds in this place were, and there was a Caribou Coffee in the lobby. She was already craving it tomorrow.

“And will you be attending our Christmas ball?” The man behind the counter asked after Will told them they needed two rooms.

“No way. There’s a Christmas ball?” He had that excited little kid thing going on again.

“Yes, sir. It’s our premiere event of the season.” He gave them a once-over, like the ma?tre d’ looking at Ferris Bueller while he claimed to be Abe Froman, the Sausage King of Chicago. “It’s. . . ahem. . . a dressy affair.”

They were certainly not dressy. Lauren was wearing her worn-out yoga pants and an old, pink Berkeley sweatshirt, and Will had on track pants and a black Nike hoodie.

“Yes, we will absolutely be attending.” Will slapped the counter. “What time does it start?”

“Will—” Lauren smiled at the employee and pulled Will aside. “We can’t go to a dance.”