Page 114 of Snowed In
Smooth.
TWENTY-FOUR
MEGAN
I’m ready at nine a.m. the following day. I’m ready before that, but I don’t want to be too desperate, so I wait in my bedroom, and scroll through my phone before going down the stairs an acceptable ten minutes before I’m supposed to.
I’m weirdly nervous. I’m not saying Iexpecteda knock on my bedroom door last night, but I wasn’t not expecting it either. I might have fallen asleep waiting for it. I might have woken up twice thinking I’d heard it. But there was no knock. There was nothing. Because I am reading into things.
Christian’s a protector. I get that. It’s why he looked after me in the pub. It’s why he walked me home. And yesterday when he saw me with Isaac, his brain wentdamselanddistress,and he did what he could to make me feel better. And that’s it. Which means I have to stop second-guessing every look and get my head in the game.
We still have to get through Christmas. And now I’ll have to deal with Sophie and Aidan on top of that. So as soon as Christian comes down those stairs, I’m going to be polite and friendly, and we’re going to continue on like nothing’s changed.
Except that nine a.m. comes and goes, and he doesn’t appear.
I give him some leeway, even though he’s Mr. On Time, but when five, then ten minutes pass, I grow restless. I text him at nine fifteen and get no answer. At nine twenty, I get annoyed.
“Christian?” I stand at the bottom of the staircase, staring up it as I call his name.
There’s no answer.
Nothing but silence and the rustle of my coat as I shrug out of it, already sweating in the warm house.
I hang it on the banister and try again.
“Christian?”
Nothing.
Fine.
I march back up the stairs and down the short hallway to his room.
“Hello?” I knock and fall quiet, straining to hear any noise on the other side. “I’m coming in, so don’t be naked.”
The handle opens easily under my touch, and I poke my head in to see a small but nicely decorated room. I barely noticed it when I did my initial tour of the house, but this one is actually nicer than the bedroom I picked, with views over the tall trees in the back and big windows that lead onto a small balcony. There’s an en-suite to my right and a large closet to my left and a king-sized bed pushed up against the wall.
Christian’s lying in the middle of it with the covers pulled up to his chin. He doesn’t stir when I step inside.
Is he asleep?
Drunk?
Dead?
I creep around the bed, eyeing him warily. The curtains are drawn back, meaning he either got up this morning or didn’t pull them closed last night. His phone lies charging on the table beside him, and a change of clothes lie neatly folded next to his duffle bag like he started packing halfway through and gave up.
“Christian?” I move around to his side of the bed until I can see him properly and stop as soon as I do.
The man is asleep. He’s actually asleep.
I click my tongue off the roof of my mouth, exasperated, and check the time again. We’re definitely going to be late now.
“Get up,” I say, grabbing his bag and shoving the rest of his clothes inside. “Christian.”
There’s a noise halfway between a grunt and a groan, but I take it as acknowledgment.
“I thought you said you were an early bird,” I grumble but pause when he turns over onto his back, his eyes still closed. I can see his face better now, including the faint sheen of sweat covering his skin, like he’s just gone for a run. He doesn’t look like he’s come back from a brisk five miles, though. He looks awful. He also doesn’t make another sound, even though I’m making enough noise that he has to know I’m there.
