Page 11 of That Stranded Feeling
“Snow’s halfway up the tires now.”
“Figured. So, how exactly are you planning to get out of here?”
I ruffle Elsa’s head, then pick up my hot chocolate from the coffee table and try to stir it. It’s a cold, lumpy mess.
“Is there anywhere near here that’s flat enough to land a helicopter?”
I laugh and head back to the kitchen. “Would you like a hot chocolate?”
“Seriously. Where could a helicopter land?”
I spin around to find the charming smile gone. He’s deadly serious. The structured cheekbones, neatly manicured eyebrows, and lips so perfect they look almost drawn on, show not a single sign of jest.
“Are you serious?” I ask, because surely he can’t be. “A helicopter?”
“Yes.”
How much money does someone have to have that, when they can’t drive somewhere, their first thought is to rustle up a chopper? More than sense, apparently.
“Well, first, we’re on the side of a pretty steep hill. Second, that hill is covered in about three feet of snow, which is getting deeper as we speak. Third, you can’t even order a pizza, never mind a helicopter, without a phone or the internet.”
“Well, I couldn’t see beyond the end of my headlights. I have no idea what the area’s like. For all I know, there could be a fully maintained helipad around the corner.” He rubs the back of his neck and turns away. “This is ridiculous.”
He mutters something else, but the only word I can pick out is “shitting.”
If I can’t get him out of here and reclaim my nice, peaceful evening, I’m going to have to at least turn down his stress levels a notch or two.
“I’d just made a hot chocolate when you knocked on the door. But it’s all revolting and congealed now. I’m going to make a fresh one. And I’ll make you one too.”
He turns back around and looks at me, arms outstretched.
“How can there be no way to communicate? It’s not possible. Where the hell am I that in the twenty-first century the only way to receive information is by winding a handle on a hundred-year-old radio?”
He gestures at Grandpa’s radio so dismissively I want to give it a hug to stop its feelings being hurt.
“You’re starting to sound a little ungrateful.”
He is, in fact, starting to sound so similar to Alastair—rich and entitled, with a California accent—that my stomach churns. He might be handsome, but he also might be precisely the type of person I moved all the way across the country to get away from. And precisely the type of person I never wanted to be anywhere near again.
“There has to be a way out of here,” Owen says.
I shake my head and continue toward the kitchen. “There isn’t.”
“Well, I can’t stay here.”
“Oh, believe me.” I blast water into the kettle. “It’s not my favorite option either.”
I put the kettle on the stove then rinse the cold chocolate mud out of my mug.
When I turn around, Owen’s back at the counter, looking down at his phone and letting out a heavy sigh.
“No amount of huffing and staring at it will produce a connection,” I tell him.
“How long is this stuff usually out for? I mean they can’t leave people without communications. So, what? Like, a couple of hours or something?”
I slam my hands on my hips. “Are you trying to be funny? Have you ever lived in the real world?”
“More real than you can imagine,” he mutters, then looks up at me and speaks more clearly. “And I went to school in Massachusetts. Fucking hated the winter.” He shudders at the memory. “Stayed inside and avoided it as much as possible. I vowed to never live anywhere that has winter again. Why would any sane person choose that?” He looks back down at his phone, shakes his head, and mutters, “I don’t understand snow.”
