Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
8
Logan
Six hours. The roadside assistance dispatcher managed to reduce our wait time from twelve hours to six. Which is fantastic, except six hours still means we’re stuck here until about three a.m.
Looks like we’re ringing in the New Year in our car.
We don’t have another choice, though. We’re stranded, and there’s no way we’re leaving this vehicle. I’ve seen movies. Nothing good ever comes from leaving your car in a storm. Outside sucks. Inside the Mercedes is nice and toasty. For now, anyway.
Although we have more than half a tank of gas, I don’t want to take any chances, so I turn to Grace and say, “Let’s turn it off for now.”
“You mean the heat?” She looks horrified. “We’ll freeze to death.”
“Nah. I’ll keep you warm, I promise.”
Her eyes twinkle. “Ooooh. How are you gonna do that?”
I gesture to the back seat. “Get back there and make yourself comfy. I’ve got some goodies in the trunk for us.”
As she climbs over the center console, I hop outside and once again endure the frigid night air. Snowflakes dance around my head and stick to my cheeks as I walk into the wind and round the SUV. I’ve kept an emergency kit in every vehicle I’ve ever driven, and this one is no different. I grew up in New England—I know the drill. Blanket, candles, water, the usual survival gear. But I also brought some extra treats for our New Year’s Eve getaway.
“Incoming,” I call, tossing a thick fleece blanket over the partition between the trunk and the back seat.
“Thank you!” she calls back.
I grab the canvas bag and close the trunk, then suffer four more seconds of snow and wind before sliding in next to Grace. “Fuck, it’s cold,” I gripe.
She’s already under the blanket, lifting it so I can join her. I’m too big for the blanket, so my boots stick out the bottom, but I don’t care. Cuddling with my girl is all I care about.
“What’s in the bag?” she asks curiously.
“First of all—this.” I pull out a bottle of cheap champagne. “It’s a twist top,” I say with a rueful grin. “You know I’d normally spring for the good bubbly, but I didn’t want to be blowing corks into the B&B walls.”
Grace snickers. “Blowing corks? That sounds so dirty.”
“Also, I didn’t pack any glasses because I assumed we’d have some in our room. So I guess we’re drinking straight out of the bottle.”
“Classy!”
“Hey, I’m the son of a mechanic. I grew up with grease and oil on my hands and face and—actually.” I shrug. “It was all over me, all the time.”
“Hot.”
I arch a brow. “Is that so?”
“Are you kidding me? I’d pay you to let me rub oil all over you. All those glistening muscles…” She shivers, and I know it’s not from the cold.
I make a mental note—Grace wants to see me all oiled up. I bet I could make that happen next time I have a night off. I mean, I’m all about making her feel good. Whatever it takes to get her off, I’m up to the task.
“Should we open this baby now or wait till midnight?”
She mulls it over. “Let’s wait. It’ll be a little less depressing if we’re at least drinking champagne when the clock strikes twelve.”
“Whatcha calling depressing? This is romantic.” I pull her toward me. “C’mere.”
A second later we’re snuggled up, my arm wrapped around her shoulders, her cheek pressed against my chest. The car’s still warm, and we have our combined body heat, but the warmth only lasts about fifteen minutes. As Grace chats about the news show she’s producing for Briar, I notice her breath starting to escape in white puffs.
“One sec,” I interrupt, stretching toward the front seat. “Let’s turn on the heat for a bit.”
We do this for the next hour—let the heat build up, turn it off to conserve it, and then blast hot air again when we start shivering.
“I feel like there’s got to be a better way to stay warm,” Grace says after I shut the heat for the billionth time.
“Mmm-hmmm?” I give her a wolfish grin.
“That’s not what I meant, but…” She grins back. “It’s not a bad idea.”
“Not a bad idea at all,” I agree, and then I thread my fingers through her hair, tilt her head back, and cover her mouth with mine.
I love kissing her. Sometimes when I’m on the team jet trying to sleep or when my mind wanders in the locker room, I think about the first time Grace and I kissed. I’d accidentally shown up at her dorm room thinking it was my buddy’s. Instead, I found a freshman watching Die Hard movies and eating candy. I joined her, because, why not? She was cute and I was bored. But somehow it went from a movie night to a make-out session. My hand down her pants and her hand down mine.