Page 31 of Jack Frost
I tear open the packet and sink my teeth in. "Oh. My. God. This is incredible."
Jack prims up his mouth and splays his fingers against his chest. "Goodness me, Miss Emery—you really should swallow your food before you try to talk."
"I can't take breaks for talking. It's too good."
With our sandwiches devoured, Jack wraps me in his arms and whirls us back into the supply closet.
"What about the gear we left on the iceberg?" I whisper.
"I'll go back and get it now."
"Oh. Right. Yes, you should go. I really need to focus on work this afternoon." I squirm in his arms; he hasn't loosened his grip at all. "And I should stop by the bathroom. My hair is probably wild right now."
Still Jack holds me, his breath whisking quick and cold past my cheek. There's a desperation in the way he clings to me, a vibrating tension of power held forcibly in check. My skin tingles and glows along every point of pressure between his body and mine.
My voice is barely a whisper. "Jack?"
A shuddering inhale quakes through him, and then he says, low, "I'm sure your hair is fine."
"Thank you," I tell him; and I know he understands that I'm grateful for more than the reassurance.
Carefully I disengage myself and slip into the hallway. Thankfully no one is there to see me emerging from the closet. A quiet swish of wind lets me know that Jack has spiraled away.
Alice disappears fifteen minutes before five o'clock—not that I care. The benefit is the day after tomorrow, on Christmas Eve, and from what I can tell, we're in good shape for it. I have a list of minor to-do's for tomorrow, and then I'll need to find out what kind of footage they want me to take at the party. After that I'll have a week of vacation, which I plan to spend editing all the photos and videos I took in Antarctica. I'm also going to write a couple pieces about my time there and see if I can sell one to a magazine. I can always use the extra money—camera accessories aren't cheap, and the tech keeps changing at a pace that I can't keep up with. I have to stay semi-relevant, though, or I'll lose the professional ground I've gained.
As I'm heading for the front doors of the office, someone reaches in front of me and pushes the handle. It's Newt Minnick. His pseudo-gallant gesture places him uncomfortably close to me; I practically have to brush against his chest to get out the door.
"Thanks," I mutter.
"Ready for some good Southern cooking?" He flares that too-white smile again.
"Sure. Who else is coming?"
"Oh, um—no one else could make it. Too busy with pre-holiday prep—you know." He smirks at me.
My stomach sinks. Jack was right—this guy is a sleazeball looking for a lay. He didn't actually invite anyone else.
"My car is this way." Minnick points to a parking spot near the front doors.
I hesitate, trying to think up an excuse. I should be able to simply say, "I don't want to go to dinner with you;" but society has come up with ridiculous rules about not hurting other people's feelings. Why should I care about this smarmy asshole's feelings? I care about not having to spend an extremely awkward evening countering his clumsy attempts to flirt me into bed.
But heisone of my bosses. He could make things difficult for me if he thinks I'm being rude, or difficult, or cold. Maybe I should just go along with it, despite the warning that burns in my gut.
A chilly breeze whisks past my left shoulder, and I smother a relieved smile, because I know who it is before he steps forward. Jack advances on Minnick with a carnivorous grin, holding out one pale, long-fingered hand. "Hi there. I'm Jack. I'll be joining you for dinner."
"Oh. How—how nice." Minnick shakes Jack's hand. His expression is the poster child for foiled plans.
"It's okay, isn't it?" I ask. "You said a group, so I invited him."
"It's fine, of course," Minnick replies, absently patting his own hair, a helmet of acorn-brown parted crisply along the right side and solidified with hairspray.
"Why don't you ride with Mr. Minnick?" Jack says, turning to me. "I'll drive your car and meet you there."
That isnotwhat I had in mind. In fact, I'd love to takemyselfto dinner and leave the two of them out of the picture completely. But I suppose we should throw Minnick a bone, since he won't be getting anything else bone-related tonight. I can endure a short car ride with him.
Gritting my teeth, I toss Jack my keys. "Not a scratch." Not that I would know if he scratched it. My poor old car is already latticed with scratches and dappled with dings.
"I swear," says Jack, crossing his heart. After Minnick gives him the name of the restaurant, he jaunts away across the parking lot, tossing my keys into the air. They twirl upward in a cloud of glittering snowflakes before floating back down to his palm. Quickly I glance at Minnick to see if he noticed, but he's frowning at his phone, skimming through Twitter or something. He glances at his phone at every red light on the way to the restaurant, and he's still scrolling when the server arrives to take our drink order and tell us the specials, which primarily consist of heavily fried things. Fried chicken, fried fish, fried shrimp, fried okra, fried freaking pickles.
