Page 39 of Snowed in with the Grump

I tense, and my pulse kicks up a notch. “We were worried about you in the storm.”

“It was pretty hairy for a bit, but we managed,” Sarah says, blowing on her gloves.

Her husband, Matt, is stamping snow from his boots behind her.

“Yeah, those roads were nasty,” he says with an easy laugh that grates on my already frayed nerves.

I force a tight smile. “Good thing you played it safe. Wouldn't want anyone braving it alone.”

Sarah searches my face. I hold her gaze for a loaded moment, wondering if she can sense the turbulent emotions churning within me.

“Exactly,” she says brightly. “It'll be nice to relax and enjoy the holiday together now. You'll stay for Christmas dinner, won't you, Carter?”

“Sure,” I mutter before returning to work, stacking boxes more forcefully than necessary.

Matt claps me on the shoulder. “But hey, now the storm's passed. I bet you're itching to get out of here, huh, Carter?”

I grip the drill tightly to stop myself from snapping at him.

I have no intention of leaving. In fact, I want the opposite—for them to go so Ava and I can finally be alone.

Sarah lays a gentle but firm hand on my arm. “You don’t need to stick around if you'd rather go home to Mom and Dad’s place.”

I appreciate her thoughtfulness, knowing she's trying to give me an out. But I clench my jaw, torn between loyalty to my sister and my longing for Ava.

“I'm not going anywhere,” I say evenly.

Matt shakes his head. “We'd understand if you bailed. Being cooped up for days with one other person? I'd go crazy.”

I tense, hiding my true feelings. They think I've been biding my time, waiting to hightail it home.

“It was no trouble having Ava here,” I reply, my tone clipped.

An awkward beat passes.

“I should get back to work,” I mutter, turning away before I say something I regret.

When Matt asks if I need any help, I curtly assure him I'm fine.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “I can take a hint. See you inside.”

Taking a deep breath, I rein in my simmering emotions. Losing my temper won't help.

Following the draining conversation, I duck into the spare bedroom and start pulling down the old drywall, something I can do with my good arm.

I haul back and swing at the rotted wall panels, using the force of each blow to vent my frustration.

I work my way along the shared wall with my bedroom next door. The monotonous work is soothing, each slam and crack chipping away at my turmoil.

Pieces of splintered wood clatter to the floor as I batter the wall repeatedly until my muscles burn and I'm gulping air.

As I reach the far corner, a strange sound makes me pause. Frowning, I peel back a chunk of drywall, revealing a cubbyhole.

I set down the tools and wedge myself into the narrow gap, fishing out a dusty bundle of envelopes tied with ribbon.

My heart stutters—they’re covered in Ava's loopy handwriting.

The heavy oak dresser in my room is on the other side of the wall. I never believed Ava’s story about the mouse, but now I see why she struggled to shove it aside. She was trying to retrieve the letters.

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