Page 38 of No More Billionaires

“Right.” I looked around. “So, I guess we should find one of those courtesy phones.”

Larson shook his head and pulled a set of keys out of his pocket, holding them up and jingling them between us. “I held on to the rental car, just in case.”

I blinked. “You—you’re going to drive home? In a snowstorm?”

“Weare going to drive home. And it’s not a snowstorm. It’s a snow shower. It’s only four hours away driving—we could be stuck in the airport all night, waiting for it to reopen.”

While I did not relish the idea of sleeping on an airport floor—I was already exhausted from staying up most of the night indulging in girl talk with Heidi—I was even less thrilled at the prospect of four hours in a compact car with Larson.

There was no way we’d be able to come up with enough shoptalk and small-talk to last the trip. It was a recipe for deep conversational disaster.

“You go ahead—I’m just going to wait it out. The snow will probably stop soon, and they’ll get the flights straightened out. And how do you know the roads will be any better? You weren’t in Atlanta during the last big storm—the whole place practically shut down over three inches.”

“If you’re worried about my winter driving skills, I learned in New York City traffic in February. It doesn’t get worse than that. This is nothing. Come on, Kenley, what are you going to do for hours here? Duty-free shopping?”

I pulled my paperback from my purse. “I’ll spend some quality time with Stephen King.”

Larson laughed. “Touché. But even Mr. King can only entertain you for so long. I’ve seen you—you’re a fast reader. Seriously, think about it. Look at all these people—nowhere to go—there are only so many makeup flights they can offer. It could be two days before you can get a flight back. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in the car? We’ll buy some snacks, turn on the radio, and be home sleeping in our own beds by tonight.”

I hesitated, weighing my two terrible options, trying to decide which was worse.

Larson made one last plea.

“I’d really appreciate it if you’d come with me. I didn’t end up sleeping very well last night, and sometimes I get drowsy driving. You could talk to me and keep me alert. Imagine the sickening tribute package you’d have to help Deb put together if the host of Overstreet Live died a tragically premature death on the highway between Nashville and Atlanta.”

He gave me a charming, puppy-dog-eyed smile.

I closed my eyes and shook my head, exhaling in defeat. “You’re kind of a master guilt-tripper, you know that?”

Larson grinned widely and turned toward the exit to the parking garage.

“One of my many skills.”

He laughed, and I followed him, instantly curious about his other skills, and preparing myself for the world’s longest four-hour car trip.

FOURTEEN

A Long Walk

Seven hours later, we sat in the freezing front seat of the rental car, stalled on Highway 24 in the same spot we’d occupied for the past five hours.

Larson looked over at me from the driver’s seat, his pained expression intensifying as I shivered in my inadequate wool coat.

This was puffy coat weather, and sadly, I didn’t own a puffy coat. No gloves with me either.

My fingers were so stiff with cold, texting my family was like trying to thread a needle with mittens on.

We r dong to by later thun I tought.

“Shoot. I can’t even type. They’re going to think I’m lying about the traffic jam, and I’m really drunk-texting from some honky-tonk in Nashville.”

“That actually sounds fun,” Larson tried joking.

He looked over at me and his smile fell. “I’m so sorry,” he said for at least the fiftieth time.

“It’s okay.” I fought to keep my teeth from chattering. “It’s not your fault.”

“It kind of is. I talked you into this. If you’d stayed at the airport, you’d at least be warm. I’ll start the engine again in a few minutes and warm it up in here. I think we’d better conserve our gas as much as possible, though.”

---