Page 134 of Sinful Like Us
Shit.
Carefully, I pull out of Jane. She blinks through the fog of sex, questions surfacing in her big blues, and I tell her, “Someone’s here.”
Probably a local who spotted our car. Fog and morning mist coat the windows, so it’s not like they can see inside.
Jane and I dress fast. Pants on, jackets on, and I jam my feet into my boots before wrenching open the door—dammit.
It’s stuck.
Snow has barricaded us. If we were alone, we’re resourceful enough that we’d find a way out ourselves. But thankfully we have help now—and we don’t need to break a door or bust a window.
We share a look, light in our eyes. It’d be easy to be upset that reality has caught up. To wish away whatever person is here to help us.
But I think we’re both grateful for our fairytale and our reality—because we’re together in each one. We’re leaving this car as a couple when we entered it broken up.
“Jane?! Thatcher?!” Maximoff’s voice is unmistakable.
“Moffy!” Jane shouts. “We’re here!”
Not locals, then.
Surprise barely touches me. Because Maximoff Hale searching for a lost family member is in his nature the same way Jane hanging outside a window to tie a scarf to the car—in a fucking blizzard—is in hers.
Relief surges through me. Just knowing the help that’s arrived iscapableand prepared for a rescue.
I try to force open the jammed door, budging a little bit more. Farrow and Maximoff dig us out in a matter of minutes.
Wind whips my hair, the sun hiding behind thicker, darker clouds. Hefty hiking packs lie next to the buried tires. I know they belong to Maximoff and Farrow. Both are dressed in full winter gear, their noses and cheeks reddened. Like they trekked here on foot through hellish weather. With a quick glance, I assess the car.
Fucking dammit.Deep in the snow, every door is obstructed, and the windshield is caked with ice. It’s not just that. The road is gone.
Just a valley of snow.
Even if we unburied the car, we wouldn’t be able to drive home.
While I attach my radio to my waistband and fit in my earpiece, Jane hops out behind me. Her ballet flats sink in the snow. “Sorry I didn’t come home, old chap—”
Maximoff rushes to his best friend and wraps her up in his arms. Picking her off the ground in a hug and saving her feet from the cold. “You’re okay?”
“I’m okay.” She clings tighter to him.
Farrow comes to my side, and we both watch the people we love embrace. They whisper to each other, and Maximoff keeps sweeping her from head to toe. Making sure she’s in one piece.
“I never want to see him like that again,” Farrow tells me, his voice low.
My chest tightens. “That bad?”
“Man, you have no idea.” His brown eyes almost glass, carrying the hours where he watched Maximoff fear the death of his best friend.
I think of the car crash last May. “I have some idea.” I watched Jane face the possibility that Maximoff was dead on-site.
Farrow remembers and nods. We need to catch up, and I skim him: a black beanie covering his hair, one earring dangling, and a black snow jacket with black snow pants on. I don’t care if he came in looking like Captain Jack Sparrow.
His comms should be accessible. “Where’s your earpiece?”
He rolls his eyes. “I don’t know, Mom, where’s yours?”
“In my ear,” I snap.
