Page 25 of Mistletoe & Magic
I grab my coat and my lip balm, check the mirror one last time, and breathe. Festive. Capable. Maybe a little brave. Then I head down to gauge Remy and what kind of mood he's going to be in.
He is out there in the cold, breath white in the frosty air, scraping the windshield in steady strokes. When he sees me, he doesn’t say a word. He stomps over, ice scraper still in his hand, and opens the passenger door. The cab is warm. He does not look at me, his face as unreadable as ever, but his hand stays on the door until I climb in. For a second, I just sit there, baffled and soft all at once, because he left the glass half-frosted to make sure I did not have to touch the handle. I rub my gloved hands together and bite back a smile that blooms anyway. Actions, not words. With Remy, it is always that. He shuts the door carefully, goes back to the scraper, and I watch him through the fogging window with my heart doing its own small, traitorous thing.
The heater hums loudly as we pull out of the driveway, snowflakes drifting lazily through the air.
It’s quiet for a while, just the sound of the tires crunching over snow and ice, until a familiar guitar riff comes through the speakers.
My head snaps up. “You listen to Taylor Swift?”
His jaw twitches like he’s trying not to react. “It’s Junie’s playlist.”
“Sure, it is,” I tease, grinning. “Can I pick the music?”
“No,” he clips.
“What are you gonna do? Fire me?” I tease. “You need me here, and you know it. I’m a big help, and I keep things interesting.”
“That you do,” he mutters and turns onto the highway, glancing over at me and down my body, but not in a creepy way. It almost looked like Remy was maybe…possibly…checking me out.
I connect my phone to his aux cord and play eighties hits and serenade him. He glares at me and says, “fired.”
“I’d love to see you try, Remington Bennett,” I challenge.
And that actually adds a spark to his eyes as he purses his lips and focuses on the road.
Before I can say anything else, he actually sings the next line, low, quiet, and better than I’d expect from a grump like Remy Bennett.
For a second, I just…stare. My fingers are warm inside my gloves, but my cheeks feel hotter than they should in the truck with hot Remy.
We fall into easy conversation after that, and there’s a tiny spark of something you can’t name yet.
He tells me Junie’s been begging for a dog. “Keeps drawing little pictures and leaving them on my pillow. Yesterday was a doodle of a dog with a giant red bow around its neck.”
“Subtle of her.” I laugh, but it fades too fast. “I didn’t get to bring my dog with me when I moved here.”
His eyes flick toward me, quick but sharp, before going back to the road. "Why not?"
“My ex would not let me take her.”
He does not say anything at first. His hand shifts on the wheel, knuckles tightening a shade against the worn leather like he is tucking that away.
The ride goes quiet. Peaceful, the kind of quiet that happens with Remy sometimes, even when I am not sure what to do with all the space between us. Trees blur past in dark rows. The heater hums low. Some old song plays soft on the radio, all warm guitar and memory.
“You said your ex would not let you take your dog,” he says finally. His voice is low, like he is not sure he should ask.
I nod, eyes on the window. “Yeah.” A beat passes. “He kept my dog. Took my furniture. Kept the house. Slept with my best friend for the sweet little bonus round.”
The words land heavy. Too raw. I wish I could grab them back. I almost sayforget it. Sorry. Never mind. I glance over instead.
His face is unreadable, but his hands are not. One grips the wheel until the tendons stand out. He pulls a breath through his nose, sharp and controlled.
“That guy is a piece of shit,” he says quietly.
I let out a breath I did not know I was holding. It leaves me soft around the edges. “Yeah,” I say, voice smaller now. “He really is.”
We don’t talk much after that. The silence shifts, though. It is not awkward. It feels like he took a corner of the weight and set it on his side of the truck without asking me for permission. The road hums under the tires. The song changes. I look out at the trees, and for the first time in a while my chest does not feel like it is holding its breath.
When we hit Main Street, garland wraps the lampposts, each with a big red bow. Wreaths hang on shop doors, and the bakery window fogs over with steam from the ovens.
