And just like in a Regency novel, Samuel curls an arm around my waist and holds me up—holds me against him—the motion quick and effortless.
“Whoa,” he repeats, brow furrowed. “Emma, I was joking, but if you’re really not okay, let’s sit you down and get you some water. If you tell me this involves a protein bar—”
“No protein bars.” I put my hands on his chest and gently push him away. “Just busy. I’ll see you around.”
I hobble into the cellar and leave Samuel staring after me. It’s rude, and it’s weird, but I’m worried if I stood there one second longer, I would’ve done something stupid.
I almost run into Samuel again upstairs. And again, in the hallway outside our offices when I’m shrugging into my coat after a meeting with our managers to make sure everything goes smoothly tonight. My nose somehow ends up in his shirt again.
“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you’re trying to sniff me. I smell that good, huh?”
He’s smiling again, real and warm.
It shouldn’t be this hard, not wanting to strip your coworker naked and fuck him six ways to Sunday.
It shouldn’t be this hard not wanting someone, period.
“Get over yourself,” I mutter and dash out of there like the barn’s on fire. My pulse is hammering, and I feel lightheaded.
I see flurries on my short walk home. It’s also windy. The sky is getting dark, and the smell of cold stone and dampness fills the air. I’ve lived in the mountains long enough to recognize it as the smell before a good snow.
My stomach twists, and I walk faster. I know the worst of the storm isn’t supposed to hit until later tonight. But the weather changes quickly at higher altitudes, and the farm tops out at almost four thousand feet above sea level.
Shit.
I hurry inside my cottage. I throw my jacket, boots, and bag on the bench beside the front door and make a mad dash for the bedroom. I have my outfit picked out, but I didn’t have time to pack an overnight bag in case I get stuck. Truth be told, I also didn’t want to jinx myself. Is packing for a night away bravely optimistic or embarrassingly naïve?
Either way, I didn’t do it yet, so I scramble to throw something together.Protein bars: check. Samuel would not approve, but this isn’t about him. In fact, this is about forgetting him. Plus, if I really do get stuck, it can’t hurt to have some food on hand.
Aquazzura heels: check. I’ll wear boots on the way there, then slip into the stilettos when I get to the restaurant.
Condoms: most likely checking the embarrassingly naïve box, but whatever. If Blue and I are gonna bone, we’re gonna do it safely.
I throw on some eyeliner and lip gloss. Then I wiggle into my jeans. It’s the first time I’ve worn them since I came to the farm, and they’ve definitely gotten tighter.
Gotta be all that food Samuel keeps feeding me. Despite the fact that these jeans are cutting off my circulation, I smile.
Worth it. That quiche he left on my desk the other day? The stuff of dreams.
So I leave the button undone and plug in my curling wand. I feel sexiest when I’m rocking long, loose waves, so I’d planned to curl my hair after work. Glancing out my window, I see it’s getting dark, and the snow is really picking up.
I try to be quick, but I also want my hair to be perfect. I don’t know what it says about me that a great hair day gives me a bigger boost of confidence than pretty much anything else, but I don’t care.
Only when I’m halfway done with my head, I lose power. Literally. As in the lights go out and the heat cuts off and the world goes dark around me.
“What the hell?” I say out loud. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
I come up with plan B. I’ll pack my wand, cross my fingers and toes there’s an outlet in the restaurant bathroom, and finish my hair there. But I have to leave now if I’m going to have time to do it.
I don’t realize just how hard it’s snowing until I’m making a run for my car but find a golf cart instead.
Because my car is parked in the lot up by the main house. Of course. Hank took it up there when I arrived, and I haven’t needed it since. How did I forget that large detail? Maybe because being on Blue Mountain makes you forget the real world and all its conveniences—cars, men who aren’t distractingly beautiful—even exists.
For a second, I consider calling Hank. Should I have him bring the car here? But with the amount of arrivals we’re having, everyone at the main house will be busy. My guess is it’ll be much quicker for me to run up there and get the car myself.
No use taking the golf cart. Those tiny tires definitely won’t cut it on the slick road.
Cursing the day I was born, I pull up my hood, hike a bag over each shoulder, and start walking. It’s barely five o’clock, but it’s already pretty dark, and I have to squint to see through the snow. The path is mostly uphill, and as I huff and puff, my lungs and heart burn from the cold air. The snow is coming down sideways, blowing inside my hood. My curls are already wet, and I can tell my jeans are gonna be soaked by the time I get to my car. This bums me out more than it should.
Still, I keep going.
Think about what a great story this will make, I think to myself, legs aching. You and Blue can tell your grandchildren how you literally had to walk uphill in a snowstorm to meet him.
That’s dangerously naïve, but hey, my hair and my outfit are already ruined, and I don’t want my eye makeup to go too. So I do what I must to keep from dissolving into tears.
The snow is coming down so hard now I can barely see two feet in front of me. The realization, sudden and awful, settles like a brick in my stomach.
This date isn’t going to happen.
It’s just too risky trying to make it down the mountain in weather like this. The narrow road connecting Blue Mountain to the rest of civilization is precarious in even the best weather. In snow like this? It’ll be downright treacherous.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, my rational self is telling me it’s no big deal. Blue and I will just reschedule. The disappointment is temporary. If the date is meant to happen, it’ll happen.
Still. The disappointment may be temporary, but damn is it crushing. I blink against the sting in my eyes, embarrassed that I’m crying over a scrapped date with a virtual (heh) stranger but too exhausted to give myself another pep talk.
That’s when I see an unfamiliar pair of headlights moving my way. They’re halogen, so bright it hurts to look at them. An enormous black SUV materializes out of the darkness. I take one look at the shiny gold rims and know—oh, shit—it’s Samuel.
My stomach plummets. I tug my hood over my eyes and keep my head down. A beat later, I hear the whirr of a window rolling down, followed by—wait, is that Van Halen’s “Why Can’t This Be Love” I’m hearing?
“Emma? Is that you?”
I hold up a hand but don’t stop walking. “Hi. And bye. I don’t mean to be rude, but I gotta go.”
A beat. The idling engine of his truck throbs.
I hear him change gears, and the next thing, I know he’s reversing the vehicle, following me.
Yeah, that’s definitely Van Halen. For a second, my stride falters. What are the chances Samuel’s listening to the band that always comes up in my chats with Blue?