Page 75 of The Most Wonderful Crime of the Year
She nodded. “Hence the search. So I don’t know how the book ends, and I don’t know howthisends, and... Ugh.” She took a deep breath and tried again. “I don’t know how to do this. Or help her. Or...”
Be me.
The words fell into her head, unbidden, and Maggie didn’t want to think about what they meant. She just knew she felt like crying. Like crying and screaming and sleeping. And when she felt herself start to shiver, she didn’t try to stop it.
“Hey.” Ethan’s arm fell around her shoulders. “I can practically see your breath. Come on.”
He tugged her to her feet and threw back the blankets on the remade bed and tucked her in like she was delicate and precious and that just made her shiver even harder. Because Ethan... cared. It was such a strange concept. An unfamiliar feeling. No wonder she didn’t trust it. It was like a foreign cell and herbody was fighting it, certain that it must be there to kill her.
But when he went to tuck the covers around her, she found herself reaching for his hand. It was warm while hers was cold, and maybe that’s why he went still, suddenly uncertain.
“So am I sleeping on the floor tonight?” There was no cocky edge to the words, no teasing tone. He wasn’t Ethan Freaking Wyatt anymore, and for the millionth time Maggie tried to reconcile this man with the one who had called her Marcie for the better part of five long years.
Ethan wasn’t supposed to be warm and caring and kind. He was supposed to be a thin veneer with nothing at all beneath that glossy surface. He was supposed to belessbut he was actuallymoreand Maggie hated him for it. But mostly she hated herself for being disappointed that someone the world thought was amazing actually was.
He was also the only source of warmth in twenty thousand acres, and maybe her only ally for much, much farther. So Maggie held up the covers and said, “Get in. I need all the body heat I can get.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Maggie
When Ethan crawled in beside her and pulled her close, Maggie didn’t let herself think about how perfectly they fit together—how their legs twisted and tangled and then clicked into place like her feet had always been the ice cream in the footsie sandwich. She didn’t let herself wonder why she’d never felt that way with Colin. How she’d been so wrong before.
Ethan was just a space heater. A temporary ally. A friend? And soon the roads would thaw and the lights would come on and Christmas would be over. It might even be a dream. So she closed her eyes.
“You know”—something warm and soft brushed against her temple—“to do the body heat thing properly we really should be naked.”
She hit him with a pillow, but he just laughed and pulled her closer, and Maggie sighed, marveling at the fact that it was her least favorite night of the year and she was in bed with her least favorite person in the world. And she didn’t want to be anywhere else.
“What?” Ethan’s chest rose and fell with the word.
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t anothingsigh. That was anI’m freaking out, but I don’t know why, and Ethan is the last person I’d ever tell anywaysigh.”
“Wow. That’s a very intense sigh.”
“Magg—”
“Do you think Eleanor’s okay?” Maggie hadn’t actually meant to say the words, but they were out there now and she couldn’t pull them back, so she focused on the slowsweep of his fingers through her hair, the rise and fall of his chest.
“I think”—his words were careful, measured—“that Eleanor Ashley has proved very hard to kill.”
It was true. She’d survived falls and fires, poison and poverty. If anyone could see the whole picture and spot the twist, it was Eleanor. But Eleanor wasn’t there.
The wind howled and the fire crackled, and Maggie shivered from the sound.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “This probably wasn’t the Christmas you wanted.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t help but laugh. “This isn’t my worst Christmas. This isn’t even my coldest.” He pulled back and looked down as she explained, “My senior year of high school the entire state lost power in an ice storm and we ended up having to burn the fence.”
It was the humblest of brags, but she couldn’t help but giggle when he said, “Nice.” Those fingers were in her hair again, with their slow, steady sweep and Maggie had to bite her cheek to keep herself from sighing.
“When I was ten, we moved from Germany to Oklahoma and every single dish we owned got broken in transit so we ate Christmas dinner off a bunch of old Frisbees.”
“When I was seven, our garage caught fire and burned all our presents.”
“When I was nine, our living room caught fire because my mom’s cat chewed through the Christmas tree lights. No,” he added before she could ask, “the cat didn’t die, but it did spend the rest of its life afraid of the color green.”
