Page 14 of Stranded in A Small Town Christmas
“I didn’t exactly pack for holiday spirit of the outdoor variety.”
“You would have left it on the plane, anyway,” I tease, and then I realize what he’s saying. “We can find you some boots.”
His face scrunches up and it’s adorable. “Great.”
“You’re already wearing borrowed clothes and my dad’s underwear,” I remind him. “Boots are nothing.”
He holds up a finger. “Just to clarify, the package of underwear was unopened, and it was a Christmas gift that hadn’t yet been gifted. So technically, I’m not wearing your father’s underwear.”
I laugh at him while pulling a collapsible tote out of the pantry. Once I’ve carefully loaded it with the casserole dishes, I add four individually packaged slices of the pie in containers with the inn’s name written on them. Leftover containers being cycled back to their original owners is something of a sport in Charming Lake.
“Let’s find you some boots,” I say, and he groans as he pushes off the stool. I’m not sure if it’s a reluctance to go or the amount of pie he ate.
My dad’s backup boots are slightly loose on him, but it’s better than being too tight. Once I’ve snagged him a coat and gloves, he’s out of excuses. He waits patiently, holding the casseroles, while I put on my coat and boots.
I should probably take the tote because I have more experience walking outside in the snow than he does, but I already know he’ll be stubborn about it. Chivalry and all that. I lead the way to the Jeep, thankful my dad was diligent about clearing and salting the walkways. We didn’t need our guest breaking his butt, and we definitely don’t want him to break the casserole dishes.
“This tote smells delicious,” he says.
“You just ate a third of a pie.”
“I had one slice.”
“A slice that barely fit on the plate.”
“It was a small plate.”
He clearly isn’t going to admit he put away an almost indecent amount of my apple pie, so I open the back door of the Jeep so he can set the tote on the backseat.
“You should drive,” I say, surprising us both. I hadn’t planned it that way, but it felt right in the moment.
He frowns, obviously confused. “You mean right now?”
“We could stand out here until frostbite sets in, but now would probably be better.”
“But why?”
“Because you used to enjoy driving and it’ll be fun.” He doesn’t look convinced. “I called Bob earlier and the roads will be fine for the Jeep.”
“Who’s Bob?”
“The plow guy.”
“I don’t have my license on me.”
“We’re not leaving town, and even if Jace pulled us over—which he won’t because he knows my Jeep—he won’t give you a ticket.”
“Who is Jace, and why won’t he pull you over?”
“He’s the police officer on duty and he won’t pull me over because he’s my sister’s ex-boyfriend. Also, because I don’t give him a reason to.”
“A rule follower, huh?”
There’s no sneer to his tone, but his words still sound like a challenge. And I can see that he wants to drive—it’s written all over his face. “Seems to me you’re the one hung up on the rules right now. And before you try to use the weather as an excuse, it’s a beautiful day. And everybody will be going extra slow because of the roads, so we’ll be perfectly safe in the Jeep.”
“I get to choose the radio station,” he says, catching the keys I toss to him.
I laugh at him while sliding into the passenger seat. “Nope. It’s Christmas music or silence.”
