Page 8 of The Christmas You Crash

I make it all of thirty feet, and when I try to take the first gentle curve, my stupid car drifts.

“No, no, no, no, no.” The antilock brakes vibrate and pump, but there’s too much snow on the ground. It’s a slow slide into the ditch—of course—and my impractical car comes to a stop with a dullthudand a spray of snow.

Great. Just. Freaking. Great.

I put the cursed thing in park, cut the ignition, count to ten to calm myself down, then get out of the car. A quick look tells me there’s no way in hell I’m getting this thing out of the ditch without a tow, so I won’t even try. I strap my duffel bag to my back and begin the short trek back up to the cabin. Except, when I try to climb out of the ditch, I slip and fall on my ass. Three separate times. My sneakers are soggy, my ass is soaked and starting to freeze, and it takes almost ten minutes of slipping and sliding before I’m, once again, standing in front of my coach’s cabin.

Lexi may be pissed, but I’ll call a tow truck as soon as I get changed out of these wet clothes so I don’t lose a testicle.

Picking my way up the stairs, careful not to fall and land on my face, I let out a sigh of relief when I make it without wiping out. And then, despite having a key, I take a deep breath, raise my fist, and knock on the door.

six

LEXI

I’m alone again,which is a relief. Ryder seemed nice—and he’s certainly pleasant to look at—but that doesn’t mean I’d want to spend a week with him. Back to my regularly scheduled program of romance novels, chick flicks, serial killer documentaries, and blissful solitude.

And bougie grilled cheese. Because I’m stupidly hungry, now.

I watch the snow fall through the windows as I chop onions. Hopefully, Ryder will make it safely to whatever hotel he’s found. If I were nicer, I would have offered to let him stay because I’m sure the roads are treacherous. But I’m not. Especially when it comes to hockey players.

The scent of butter melting in the pan distracts me from thoughts of Ryder, and my stomach growls when I drop the onions in with a sizzle. Cooking is relaxing for me. I’m no chef, but I love trying new recipes and changing up classics to make them more interesting. Like grilled cheese. It’s so good, even in its most basic form. But add some fixings, and it becomes something elevated and unexpected.

And maybe that’s why I love tinkering with old staples. Because if you tell someone you’re serving grilled cheese, they’ve got this image in their head of what it will look and taste like. Then you slide a gooey sandwich packed with surprises on their plate, and the moment they take their first bite, you see the realization that they’ve underestimated the meal, and by extension, you.

I’m in the middle of spreading a generous amount of mayonnaise on the first slice of sourdough—mayo helps the bread get extra crispy—when there’s a knock on the front door.

“You imagined it,” I tell myself as I reach for the second piece of bread. Except, there’s more knocking, and I can’t lie to myself twice. Crap.Crap. There’s only one person it could be, and I have a sinking feeling I celebrated the return of my solitude entirely too soon.

Sure enough, a bedraggled-looking Ryder stands at the door, shivering. The bottom of his sweats are drenched, and snow clings to his legs and ass. Concern momentarily overshadows my annoyance.

“Oh my god, are you okay? What happened?” I move aside and wave him in. Maybe I should have started a fire before I began cooking. It looks like he could have used it.

“S-sorry,” he says, his teeth chattering. “My car slid into the d-ditch, and I fell on my ass a few t-times trying to get myself out of it. I’m going to call a tow, but I need to change out of my wet clothes. If that’s okay.”

“Of course, it is. I think there’s still some hot cocoa left. I’ll warm it back up while you change.”

“T-thanks, Lexi.” Ryder flashes me a grateful smile before toeing off his sneakers and heading down the hall.

Guess I’m making two sandwiches. I can’t eat in front of him while he waits for a tow truck. I turn the burner beneath the hot chocolate back on before setting to work spreading mayonnaiseover two more pieces of bread. I’m assembling the sandwiches when Ryder pads back into the kitchen.

“Hot cocoa should be ready in a minute,” I tell him as I spread bacon jam generously across the inside of two pieces of bread. Then I portion out the grilled onions atop the waiting bottom halves of the sandwiches and start the stove. “You hungry?”

“I’m a hockey player. I’m always hungry.”

Having grown up around hockey players, I know all too well how much food those guys can put away. I should probably make him two sandwiches, but the pan won’t fit three, so for now, we’ll each start with one. It’ll have to be good enough.

“What are you making?” he asks hesitantly as I pour some pre-made tomato bisque into a saucepan and turn on the heat.

“Bougie grilled cheese and tomato soup. It’s one of my favorite things to make when it’s cold and snowy out.”

He chuckles. “Bougie grilled cheese? What, exactly, makes it bougie?”

“You’ll see,” I say.

“You didn’t have to make any for me, you know.” Ryder shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He’s got his chin tucked close to his chest, and he doesn’t meet my eyes right away.

“It’s really no big deal,” I tell him. And it’s not. However, I appreciate that he doesn’t just assume I’ll cater to him now that he’s here. There are plenty of pro athletes that would have expected me to roll out the red carpet in this situation. At least he doesn’t seem like one of them.

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