Booked for Christmas

they’d made it out before the road closure. And they were heading in the opposite direction of the storm, which meant they were all safe.
But Wolfe was stuck here.
With her.
They stared at each other.

6
Rubbing his jaw, Wolfe looked out the window. Sophie followed his gaze. It was like staring at a blank white wall. She couldn’t see anything at all outside, as if she and Wolfe were suspended together in some other alternate dimension where nothing existed outside the cabin.
As if he was having the same disturbing thought, Wolfe looked back at her. “I’m gonna get a hotel room for the night. My Jeep can make it into town. I just finished rebuilding it.”
Sophie looked out at the snow dubiously. His behemoth of a Jeep was likely already buried under a mound of snow. “Even if that were true, Starlit Grove doesn’t have any hotels.”
He looked at her. “Seriously?”
“Yep. The closest one’s in Oakwood, but you’d have to use the same road to get there as you do for Portland.”
He blew out a breath and pushed a hand through his hair, looking back out the window at the snow. “Maybe I could find an Airbnb somewhere around here…”
Sophie really, really wanted to take him up on it. In fact, she wanted to fling the door open and push him out into the snow. She wanted to sing, “See ya, wouldn’t want to be ya!” cheerfully as he sailed his Jeep into oblivion looking for that non-existent Airbnb.
But she wasn’t a murderer (except in her book that one time). Much as she abhorred Evan Wolfe and his dastardly column, she was a decent human being who’d been raised by other decent human beings who had taught her that sending someone off to their icy death was frowned upon.
So Sophie sighed. “No, you’re not going to find anything in a town this size, let alone in a blizzard. I … I’d be happy to host you here for a while. Until they open up the road.”
His hazel eyes narrowed, the gray in them more pronounced now as if reflecting the bleakness of their unfortunate situation. “Look, I know you don’t like me. You and your friends have made that abundantly clear. You don’t have to do this for me.”
Sophie forced a tight smile. “Right. Well, I might not like you, Wolfe, but I’m not about to let you expire of hypothermia in real life. Maybe in a future book, though.”
Giving her a half-smile, he turned to look out the window again, at the unrelenting blankness. “I guess I don’t have any other options,” he mused quietly, as if talking to himself. The underpinning of regret was unmistakable. He wanted to leave as much as she wanted him out.
The thought irritated Sophie. Why did Evan Wolfe want to get away from her? She’d done absolutely nothing wrong. She’d written the books of her heart, which he’d chosen to rip apart in his column. And then he’d turned up at her doorstep like some unlucky penny.
“You don’t have to sound so put out,” she found herself saying.
He turned back to her, those infuriating skeptical eyebrows up again. “Hmm?”
Sophie gestured a little erratically toward the front door. “You’re acting like staying here is such a huge burden on you, when I’ve been nothing but nice to you all evening.”
“Nice to me? I was a little afraid at different points in the night that your friends were going to take me out back and try to break my kneecaps.”
Sophie scoffed. “Please! Are you always such a drama queen?”
“No, you’re thinking of your characters.”
Sophie gasped, outraged. Then, stomping into the bedroom, she yanked an extra pillow, sheets, and a blanket from her closet and stomped back out into the living room. Wolfe was now on the couch, unlacing his boots. He had barely looked up at her entrance when Sophie launched the blanket, sheet, and pillow at him like cottony missiles.
The pillow hit him in the face, and the sheet and blanket draped over him. “What the hell!” His voice was muffled, but the annoyance and indignation in it was clear.
Silently patting herself on the back for her perfect aim, Sophie said, “Nothing gets in the way of good hostessing—not even obnoxious, ill-tempered, boorish guests. Goodnight!” And then she stomped back to her bedroom, slamming the door as hard as she could behind her.


7
For one long, glorious, blissful moment the next morning, Sophie didn’t remember any of the previous night. It’s Christmas Eve! Later today, her parents would drive down from Portland to spend the next two days with her. Smiling a little at the thought and the sight of the peaked ceiling of her beloved cabin bedroom, she turned onto her side to face the window.
Her smile slipped a little at the sight of blinding snow as far as the eye could see—covering towering pines with its heavy weight, their boughs drooping with the effort. What the hell? And then it slammed into her: the knowledge that her own worst enemy was currently in her living room, probably drooling into her couch cushions.
Sophie scrabbled for her phone. There was a missed call from her parents, followed by a text from her mom: I’m so sorry, honey. The roads are closed. I don’t think we can make it down for Christmas. :(Call me when you’re awake.
Groaning, Sophie pulled up the weather app. Her heart leaped. The storm had blown past, and it was calm this morning. Surely they’d open the road soon. And then he could leave. He could be gone by lunchtime if he put a little hustle into it! (She’d make sure he put a little hustle into it.) And her parents could still come!
Throwing her blankets off, she padded to the window and peered out, her heart sinking immediately. Dammit. The snow was at least two feet deep everywhere, piled on top of her capable Subaru and Wolfe’s Jeep. Snowdrifts at least four feet high were pressed against her door. There