Page 34 of Meet Me at the Christmas Cottage
A voice in the back of her mind warned her that she’d need to make the walk quick so she could get back to work. She brushed it off. She’d make up the words tonight—Lexi had said Bronte worked well under pressure. Besides, a walk to town and back with a hot Army man was just what she needed. No, this wasn’t going to be a romantic stroll in the snow. This was going to be a regular stroll in the snow so they didn’t end up getting cabin fever and killing each other.
That was a thing, right? Cabin fever made a person do crazy things. Like write rom-coms instead of the literary piece of genius she was supposed to be writing.
Everything would be fine. So long as she didn’t allow herself to get sucked into the romance—writing-related or otherwise—that seemed to be calling to her more every minute.
* * *
What was he doing? He’d come here to have a conversation with his family that could potentially, if his sister was to be believed, break his father’s heart, but here he was, tromping through the snow with a beautiful woman instead of trying to figure out how to tell his dad he didn’t want to take over the clinic. Preferably without any hearts being broken.
“I’m going to throw myself in this snowbank and wait until spring,” Bronte huffed out.
Looking over his shoulder, Jonah saw Bronte standing next to a particularly fluffy-looking pile of snow on the side of the road. “Don’t do that.”
Bronte tried to cross her arms, but with Holland’s puffy snow jacket on, her arms just bounced back to her sides. “You’re going to have to give me a pretty good reason not to.”
“Because if you throw yourself into a snowbank, I’ll have to stay too.”
Bronte’s face twisted in confusion. “Why? There’s no reason for both of us to suffer for my bad decisions.”
“My mom taught me better than to leave a woman in a snowbank on her own.” He held his hand out in Bronte’s direction.
“Well, that’s just silly,” Bronte said, not sounding like she thought it was silly at all. She considered his offered hand for a moment, and for a breath, Jonah thought she was going to opt for the snowbank.
“Fine.” She took his hand. “You win.”
Jonah leaned down closer to Bronte’s ear and whispered, “I can hear the hamburgers at Martha’s calling your name. Bronte! Bronte! Can you hear it?”
Bronte closed her eyes and took a slow breath. Jonah’s gaze flickered over her small, upturned nose and freckles that just barely kissed her cheeks, before landing on her pink lips. His breath hitched, and he pulled back before he did something rash.
Like kiss her.
He couldn’t kiss Bronte. They had just met. He found her captivating, funny, smart, and gorgeous. But hecouldn’tkiss her.
He cleared his throat. He needed to stay focused.
Bronte blinked her eyes open. “I think you’re delusional. I don’t hear anything. Oh my goodness, aren’t delusions a sign of hypothermia? I’m pretty sure I read that once in research for one of my books.”
“I’m not delusional, just hungry.”
“You’re always hungry.”
“Come on.” Jonah tugged Bronte toward the restaurant. “We need to hurry in case everyone else gets the same idea and they run out of food.” Taking big steps, they half stomped, half slid the rest of the way down the street.
The glow from the window in front of Martha’s and the stack of cross-country skis and snowshoes at the door told Jonah that they hadn’t been the only ones with the idea to get out of the house today. Two snowmobiles sat parked in front, taking up most of the road.
“I’m beginning to think it would have been better if we’d been able to ride one of those things,” Bronte huffed, jutting her chin in the direction of the snowmobiles. “Remind me to inform Holland of the pros of being prepared at all times.”
Jonah leaned over to remove his snowshoes. “Will do, but you have to admit the walk did us good.”
“Did you good, maybe,” Bronte mumbled as Jonah reached around her to open the door.
Before Jonah could point out she needed to remove her snowshoes, Bronte stumbled into the restaurant.
Scents of burgers and craft beer, scents of coming home, overwhelmed Jonah. If he broke his father’s heart, would he be able to come back? Once again, he entertained the idea of not saying anything and sticking with the plan. But just thinking it caused anxiety to rise beneath the surface.
“Bronte! Jonah!” Martha, frown securely in place, called out in greeting. “Glad to see you’re both still alive.”
Cries of Jonah’s name went up around the room as people pushed out of booths and away from tables to crowd him and welcome him back. Jonah tried to keep Bronte tucked to his side, but she’d been pushed out of the way. He looked over everyone’s heads to see if he could find her and discovered her sliding onto one of the green-topped stools at the bar top, snowshoes leaning upon the dark wood bar next to her. He might not have been home in two and a half years, but little about the restaurant had changed.
