Page 73 of Ablaze

A part of me just wants to open my passenger door and roll into the barren snow. Even the prospect of freezing to death feels better than sitting in this cloud of awkwardness.

All I can think about is the way his face froze when I voiced my words. His nostrils flared like he was pissed–the same way they flared when he showed his dissatisfaction for my nightie last weekend when he came over. The same way they flared when I told him I thought he was hot all those years ago. The same way they flared when we almost kissed years before that, and he realized it was a mistake.

So, basically that’s his tell. When he’s pissed off or disappointed or disgusted, his nostrils flare. And telling him that I thought of him when I was in bed with Warren pissed him off.

No. It outright disgusted him.

We both see the blinking sign up ahead as we progress and a groan leaves my throat. Fuck!

Roads closed ahead until tomorrow at noon.

My panicky voice breaks the silence inside the car, and I look behind us as if we can turn back somehow. We can’t. The roads are packed with cars on both sides, and the snow is still piling down on us in what feels like an avalanche. “What are we going to do? What are all these other people supposed to do?”

Surprisingly, Dean stays calm, clicking the blinker to take the exit behind what feels like a million other cars. “We need to find a place to stay tonight.”

I lean forward with my elbows on my knees and my face cupped in my palms. “God, this is such a mess.” I’m not talking about just the snowstorm, either.

An hour later, we pull into another motel parking lot, but my gut tells me that like the two others we tried, this one will be without vacancy as well.

“Stay here.” Dean's low-spoken command leaves no room for me to argue as he makes his way out of the car toward the entrance of the motel. I’m assuming he’s going to check anyway, like he did the others.

He’s been texting with someone sporadically too, but with the way things have been over the past hour and a half, I haven’t had the courage to ask who it is.

Five minutes later, he’s making his way out of the motel, his phone on his ear. Based on the look on his face, I suspect he’s going to tell me what I already know–that the motel’s all booked. Maybe we can try a few other motels down the street.

But instead of going to the driver’s side, he comes to my passenger door, opening it after putting his phone inside his pocket. “Let’s go. I’ll get your stuff.”

“Wh–? They have room?” It seems hard to believe given the number of people I watched coming out of the entrance, shielding themselves inside their already wet coats, and going back into their cars.

He helps me out of the car, and I’m immediately met by a gust of freezing wind. Still, I take the chance to look at his face. His eyelashes and brows are sprinkled with a dusting of snowflakes. His nose and unfairly high cheekbones are tinged with pink. Has any man ever been so beautiful?

Without thinking, I reach up to run my thumb across his brow, and Dean takes in a quick breath. My eyes lock with his, and despite the fact that it’s bone-chilling cold outside, my insides feel like they’re on fire.

I fold my fingers instinctively, as if I’ve been burned. God, what am I doing? Why do I keep messing up? Am I trying to sabotage my friendship on purpose?

Dean tilts his head toward the motel, his voice gruff. “Go inside. I’ll bring our stuff.”

“I’ll help you.” I turn toward the trunk of my car, but his hand comes around to lock on my wrist.

“Get inside,” he repeats more firmly. “I don’t want your fingers and toes freezing off.”

Reluctantly, I do as he says because the last thing I want to do is piss him off even more than I have, but I can’t deny the acid souring my stomach and rising to my chest. I can’t deny that his gruff tone doesn’t hurt.

I wait for him before we both make our way to the reception desk. He pulls my roller bag, along with his own bag hanging over his shoulder.

“There we go,” the receptionist says with a smile, handing over a set of keys to Dean. “You’re all set, Mr. Meyer. Please let Mr. Case know he’s welcome anytime.”

My brows fold as I follow Dean to the elevator. “Who’s Mr. Case, and what does he have to do with this?”

Dean and I enter the elevator along with four other guests. We’re all wearing heavy coats, our shoulders wet from the snow melting atop them. “Hudson, Garrett’s best friend. He’s connected to the owner of this motel chain and called in a favor. Somehow, he was able to get us a room.”

“Wow, that was really nice of him.”

I’d casually been introduced to Hudson a couple of times at Meyer family events. He’s a big name in the science and research community and has built a successful multinational business from the ground up in a short time. Not to mention, he’s incredibly handsome, albeit a tad bit intimidating if you’re into that sort of thing.

The elevator doors open with a ping, and . . .

“Wait . . .” I follow Dean out into the hallway as he turns the corner to find our rooms. “Did you say room or rooms?”

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