Page 127 of Snowed In

Right. He moved back… to be near his family.

Damn it. Why is that so appealing?

“Well. Thanks again.” Wrenching the door open, I rattle off cheery wishes like an auctioneer whose pants are on fire. “Have a good night. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and all that. I guess I’ll see you next year.”

I’m not rude. Why is it so uncomfortable to act like a normal human being who knows his manners around him? And why does he look like I’ve just offended him?

“Uh…yeah. See you…next year. Merry Christmas, Marshall.”

I hightail it into the house as fast as I can without busting my ass on the icy sidewalk. I don’t stop in the entryway to hang up my coat. It’s too close to the door. Too close to the man in the truck outside. I don’t stop as I shuck my clothes on the way to my room and put my pajamas on like I’m on autopilot. Tucking into bed, I close my eyes and will sleep to blot out the last few hours of my foolish plan. Finally, a long time later, I stop letting myself imagine how heartfelt those three words sounded—‘Merry Christmas, Marshall.’

Chapter Nine

Beavers aren’t as productive as I’ve been this week. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m tired of whittling. My wood shop is full to the gills with my creations from the past seven days since Christmas Eve. I don’t have room to store anything else, even if I did have the ambition to keep working. It’s time to reconnect with the world, whether or not watching TV and checking my phone technically count as reconnecting.

Powering off my bench lights, I lock up my shop before making the trek to the house. Damn it. I finished all my leftovers from my dinner with Mom the other night and haven’t cooked a solitary thing in days. At least the price to pay for living off lunch meat for a week is enough coasters, chairs, and end tables to keep my craft booth stocked through the beginning of spring.

I’ll just order a pizza. Shit. Does anyone deliver on New Year’s Eve?

Wait…

Why do I have a notice on the Holidate app? I swear I marked myself as ‘Unavailable’ after I accepted Vincent’s…er, Ronny’s Christmas Eve offer.

Clicking on the icon, I open the dreaded program that serves as a reminder of how far I had fallen down the self-pity tree. I wonder when they messaged. I’ve had all my notifications silenced to avoid distractions. Especially any distractions that would remind me of Ronny.

It’s from…Vincent. And it’s a week old.

What the ever-loving…

He wanted a return date? How did I not see this?

I reread the request that I somehow missed in my selfish wallowing a week ago. Ronny apparently entered a date swap request. A swap! Not just volunteered as tribute for my family function. Oh, God. I’m an idiot!

Why didn’t he say anything that night?

No wonder he looked offended when I got out of his truck. I said I’d see him next year.Next year!As in,afterNew Year’s Eve! His date is fortonight.

I basically told him to take his date swap and stick it up his ass after that award-winning performance at my aunt and uncle’s house. He probably thinks I’m a selfish, cold-hearted jerk who doesn’t honor his commitments.

Shit.

I dry-humped his leg in a sleeping bag. I petted him and let him pretend to be my boyfriend. I can’t get out of this. My dignity won’t allow it.

Whirling through my house, I manage a shower and extract every article of clothing I own from my closet over the course of an hour. His request is for dinner at six p.m. at an address in town. Leave it to him to skimp on details, so I have no idea if it’s formal or casual. I don’t have time to mentally prepare myself for the unknown, but I can make it.

A sweater and slacks should be a safe bet. Will I meet his entire family? There’s no time for a pre-date, thanks to my hiding from the app of shame.

Half an hour later, I find parking on the street outside of theaddress. It’s a house. A modest, yet beautiful Craftsman-style home with stone pillars on a large porch.

Crunching over the snowy drive, it looks like quite the houseful, judging by the number of vehicles parked out front. I have no excuse for why my hands are trembling. It’s just Ronny… and a bunch of strangers. We got along for an entire evening. I’m sure we can manage it again.

Ooh, nice door. The carving work is exquisite. It looks a lot like…

Said door swings open, revealing Ronny—in sweatpants… and socks, holding a bowl of potato chips. Does his shirt have a hole by the sleeve? This entire picture shouldnotbe hot, but he looks like he hasn’t shaved and just crawled out of bed. The sound of laughter and shouting deeper in the house proves that fantasy is unlikely.

“Marshall… what are you doing here?”

Why does he sound surprised?

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