The winter didn't care about my pride. It didn't care that I'd spent the last week hiding in the back of Martha's diner like a coward, or that every time a heavy-duty truck pulled into the lot, I felt like I was staring down a loaded gun.
By noon, the "light dusting" the weatherman promised had turned into a full-blown whiteout. My beat-up sedan, which had the grip of a wet bar of soap, decided it had had enough about three miles outside of town. It didn't crash; it just drifted, almost politely, into a ditch filled with two feet of fresh powder.
I sat there for ten minutes, the engine dead, staring at the white wall of the storm. My phone was a paperweight, my heater was a memory, and I was pretty sure I was going to be an Alina-shaped popsicle by nightfall.
Then came the sound. The low, rhythmic rumble of a heavy engine.
A pair of headlights cut through the white, followed by the massive grill of a truck that looked like it could move a mountain. It pulled over, and a door slammed.
Silas Mercer didn't run. He walked through the knee-deep snow with a slow, deliberate stride that suggested he found the blizzard more of a mild inconvenience than a threat. He reached my car and yanked the door open.
"Nice parking job," he said.
He wasn't looking at me with pity. He was leaning against the doorframe, a faint, irritatingly handsome smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked at me, then at the ditch, then back at me.
"I had it under control," I snapped, though my teeth were chattering so hard I nearly bit my tongue.
"Clearly," Silas drawled. He reached in, unbuckled my seatbelt, and held out a hand.
"Come on. My place is closer than town, and I'm not in the mood to dig a frozen waitress out of a snowbank tomorrow morning."
"I can walk," I said, trying to shove past him. My boots hit the snow, my knees buckled from the cold, and I went face-first into his chest.
It was like hitting a brick wall covered in wool. Silas didn't even stumble. He just caught me by the elbows, steadying me with a grip that felt like iron. I looked up, ready to bark another insult, but he just looked down at me, his eyes dancing with a quiet, infuriating amusement.
"You're real big on the 'independent woman' thing right up until the point you fall over, aren't you?" he asked.
"Shut up," I muttered, my face burning despite the sub-zero air.
He didn't put me in the truck. He lived just up the ridge, and the road was already too dangerous for even his rig. He wrapped a heavy arm around my shoulders, not a romantic embrace, but a practical one, like he was hauling a stubborn calf. He steered me toward his house, ignoring my grumbles as I tripped over my own feet.
Inside, his house was a temple of cedar, stone, and warmth. He pushed me toward a massive leather armchair in front of a fireplace that looked like it belonged in a castle.
"Sit. Don't move. Don't bite anyone," he said, heading toward the kitchen.
"I don't bite!" I called out after him.
"Could've fooled me," he called back, his voice echoing with a low, rumbling chuckle.
He returned a minute later with a mug of something steaming and a stack of blankets. He didn't hover. He dropped the blankets on my lap and handed me the mug. It was tea, smelling of honey and lemon.
"You're a perv for making me stay here," I said, though I immediately wrapped my frozen fingers around the warm ceramic.
Silas pulled a wooden chair around, sitting across from me. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, watching me with that same look, the look of a man watching a particularly feisty kitten try to pick a fight with a dog.
"You're a broken record, Alina," he said, his voice smooth and dry. "Is that the only word in your vocabulary when you're embarrassed? Or do you just like the way it sounds?"
"I'm not embarrassed," I lied, pulling the blanket up to my chin.
"You're blushing so hard you're gonna set that blanket on fire," he noted. He reached out and flicked a melting snowflake off the tip of my nose. He didn't linger; it was a quick, teasing gesture that made my heart do a weird, fluttering flip. "You've got a lot of fight in you for someone who's currently being kept alive by a 'perv' and some Earl Grey."
"I hate you," I whispered, though there was no heat in it.
"No, you don't," Silas said, and this time, the amusement in his voice softened into something steadier. Something more dangerous. "You just hate that you can't find a reason to walk out that door."
He stood up, towering over me in the firelight. He looked down at me for a long beat, that faint, knowing smile still playing on his lips.
"The guest room is at the top of the stairs. Try not to break anything on your way up. I'll see you for breakfast."
He turned and walked away, leaving me alone with the crackling fire. I took a sip of the tea. It was perfect.
I looked at the stairs, then back at the fire, and realized that Silas Mercer wasn't just a gentleman. He was a man who knew exactly how to wait out a storm, and I was starting to realize that the storm he was waiting for wasn't the one outside. It was me.