Page 13 of Billionaire Grumpy Grinch

What? I couldn’t have read that right. I went over the words at least five times before it sank in. A part of me had still been hoping they might figure out a way to get through the roads, but her message had dashed every single one of those thoughts from my mind.

You’re kidding, I replied.What are we supposed to do?

Don’t worry,Lexi wrote back.Dean has a plan.

I felt an ounce of relief before I was hit with the realization that—for real—I was going to have to spend time with Gabe. There was a long pause while I waited for her to elaborate, but when she didn’t, I furiously typed back, asking her what the plan was, wanting to gauge exactly how much patience I was about to need.

What’s the damn plan, Lex?

One... Two... Three little dots blinked on the screen to indicate that Lexi was replying and then suddenly she wasn’t. In fact, my phone wouldn't even send a message to her. I had lost the signal completely.

“Oh, fuck no,” I moaned, trying to keep it together. But it seemed impossible when I was drowning in my own self-pity.

Gabe walked over to me and tentatively asked, “What’s going on?”

“I lost signal,” I gasped in desperation. “I have no way of contacting them. Or anybody for that matter.” This was like a horror movie that was specially designed just for me. Stuck with a grumpy Grinch on my favorite holiday without any way to contact my brother and beg him to come save me.

Gabe too pulled out his phone and looked at it, then sighed deeply and shrugged. “I guess we’re gonna have to deal with being stuck here together.”

I slid down against the kitchen cabinet and cradled my phone in my hands.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a landline, is there?” Gabe asked.

My heart leapt and I got to my feet trying to think about where I might have seen a landline. Surely if this cabin had been around since I was a kid, a landline had to existsomewhere.

“Should we start in your bedroom this time?” Gabe asked with a small laugh.

I turned to face him, ready to be furious. But when I saw how hard he was trying to hold in his smile, I couldn’t help but laugh a little, too. “Maybe,” I said. “Clearly I have no idea what the hell is in this cabin.”

Gabe chuckled and walked toward the master bedroom. I followed closely behind, hoping that along with the portable radio, there were a few other relics of the nineties.

But no such luck. Not in that bedroom or any of the others. However, we did find a giant Maglite that I would have definitely made a joke about if I wasn’t so stressed out.

“Well,” Gabe said. “I guess we’re about to get to know each other, whether we like it or not.”

I whimpered unintentionally and he looked at me with sympathy.

“I know I’m not your ideal company, but maybe I can try and distract you until they get back.” He reached out his hand to me. “Hi, I’m Gabe. I have a tendency to come off as an asshole—”

“Hot chocolate?” I asked, wanting to stop this awkward interaction before it could go any further.

Gabe frowned a little, then nodded. “Sounds good.”

We both went to the kitchen where I turned on the electric kettle. Gabe grabbed my coffee mug and his, and set them in front of me.

For the first time, I realized the mug Gabe was using was the one my dad had always used. It was a silly tradition, but we each had a favorite here at the cabin. I always went for the coffee mug that resembled a fluffy marshmallow with chocolate dripping down its friendly face while Dean liked the one that read,This is probably hot chocolate. I hadn’t understood the joke until I was halfway through high school, but now that I was adding rum to my drink, I was surprised I ever missed it.

Lexi had been drinking out of the mug Mom liked. It was a big green mug that had a cute little frog on it and read,M.I.L.F. (man, I like frogs),another joke that evaded me for years. But Dad’s choice, it was really something special. His mug was a little penguin that turned from gray to white when you poured in a hot drink, and when it would change colors, dad would yell, “It’s Christmastime!”

“What’s your book about then?” he asked, attempting once more to have some small talk. It was nice that he was attempting, but good lord, was I unprepared to go from zero to a hundred with him.

I pulled the kettle from its stand as it bubbled away and grabbed for some more hot chocolate packets. “It’s about grief. How to turn grief into passion.” I poured a pouch in each of our cups and then added a little rum, not failing to take a swig of it first.

“That’s interesting,” he said genuinely.

“It is,” I said, pouring water into one and then the other mug and watching as it steamed up with the yummy smell of rum and chocolate. “It really changed my perspective on grief. I used to think it was a bad thing, that it needed to be avoided and squashed, not felt if we could help it. But after reading this—”

And then the lights went out.

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