Page 3 of Cruel Winter with You

“Harsh, Jamie.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“I see.”

“No,really, I meant—of snow, ten inchesof—”

My phone rings. I pick up immediately, so grateful for the interruption that I could start a cult based around worshipping broadband cellular networks.

“Hi, Dad ... Yup, I made it to the Comptons’. Heading back in a minute ... I will, yes. Of course.” I glance at Marc, whose expression can only be described as displeased. Nope, still not a fan of Dad. “Marc, my father wants me to remind you that you should come over tomorrow for Christmas dinner, and ... Yes, Dad. IpromiseI’ll do my best to bring him back. No, I won’t be kidnapping him if he refuses, I ... Okay, sure. I guarantee that if I can’t convince him, I’ll bodily drag him to our place.” I hang up with an eye roll and set my phone on top of the clothes Marc has piled on the counter. It’ll be a pain to put them back on, but I must admit that it’s nice when my body doesn’t feel like it’s being stabbed with a million little ice picks. “Um, would you like to come over for Christmas dinner?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“No.”

“Got it.”

He eyes me expectantly.

“What?”

“I’m waiting for the violent abduction I was promised?”

“Oh. Right.” I glance at his height. The way his compression shirt skims his large biceps. The muscular thighs under his jeans. “Let’s say that I tried—but you bravely overpowered me.”

“Was it a close call?”

“Oh, yeah. I had you in a choke hold for a few seconds there.”

“But then you slipped on a banana peel?”

I laugh. Marc’s face seems to light up at the sound, that bright grin that thickens the air around us, and ...

He doesn’t look away. Continues staring and staring, like he’s ready to swallow me whole with his eyes. He’s always been like this when it comes to things he wants—ravenous. Larger than life. Acquisitive. And that’s why it’s not good for me to be here, with him. Marc makes my heart leap and my body glow and my brain rest, and that’s not something I could bear to have and then let go of. Whenever I’m with him, I become greedy and reckless, and ...

It’s too late, anyway. I had my chance and I blew it.

“I need to go,” I say, staring at the tiled floor. “Could you—”

I’m startled by a sudden cracking sound, followed by a metallic thud. I turn in its direction and gasp when I spot what happened through the kitchen window: in the Comptons’ backyard, one of the heavy oak branches snapped and fell on the patio.

It currently lies on top of their furniture, which looks a bit ... flattened. And maybe broken. Inseveralpieces.

Shit. I need to hurry home before the weather becomes unmanageable.Where the hell is that pan?I glance at Marc, wide eyed, only to realize that he’s reading my mind. Because he seems to know exactly what I’m about to say, and beats me to it.

“Jamie, let me make something clear.” His voice is calm and very,veryfinal. “If you think I won’t tie you up and lock you in my bedroom before I let you step outside in this weather, then you don’t know me at all.”

Chapter Two

The problem is, I do.

Know Marc, that is.

I know him very well since I first met him on the day he was born, in our hometown hospital, which smelled like cough syrup and the municipal pool. In return, he became the shining star of my earliest memory, which included Dad sitting me on a large plush chair and Mrs. Compton handing me a shapeless bundle with the warning, “Be careful, Jamie. Make sure you hold the head—yes, exactly like that.” I was two and a half. Tabitha, who was about six months older than me, had just celebrated her third birthday with a splash-pad party.

Tabitha wasn’t there, though. She was at home with her grandparents, due to what her mom referred to as “a string of attention-seeking tantrums” but what Tabitha would later reframe as “conscientious objection to the imposition of an unnecessary expansion effort.” She had been informed that a new family member would be forthcoming, and was not inclined to share resources that her young mind perceived as finite, such as toys, Frosted Flakes, and parental love.

That’s how I ended up meeting her new sibling before she did, and I was eager to report back that, competition-wise, she hadnothingto fear. The red creature squirming in my arms had a scrunched-up face, wrinkly nose, pimply cheeks,folded ears, old-man hair,andwas covered in dried crusts. It reminded me of the sugar cookies Dad would bake over the holidays, in particular the ones that didn’t come out of the oven quite right.Unfortunate looking,he’d call them.

The description fit well. The thing in my lap clearly did not have a single ounce of fortune.

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