Winter Heat

by Kennedy Fox

  I looked up at him, once again feeling the hot press of tears at the backs of my eyes. Apparently, having a man I loved ask me to marry him turned me into a water fountain.

  “I love you too. Are you sure? I mean, I come with a teenage daughter included, and it’s not always easy.”

  “I don’t care how complicated it gets sometimes.”

  I fell asleep on Christmas Eve, thinking I couldn’t quite believe my luck. Waking up on Christmas Day, one year after our first week here together, was too good to be true. My old hometown, which I’d run from as though my very self was on fire, leaving my scandal in my wake, had become my favorite place to visit. We’d already made new memories. We had more to make this year. I hurried down the stairs, my smile almost an ache of joy when I found Noah in the kitchen making coffee. “Merry Christmas,” he said as he turned.

  Thank you for reading All I Need - I hope you loved Sasha & Noah’s story!

  For more swoony & sassy romance…

  All I Want is the first holiday story in Haven’s Bay. Dallas & Audrey shared one smokin’ hot kiss years ago. Dallas never forgot it. When they get snowed in before Christmas in Haven’s Bay, all bets are off.

  About the Author

  USA Today Bestselling Author J. H. Croix lives in a small town in the historical farmlands of Maine with her husband and two spoiled dogs. Croix writes contemporary romance with sassy women and alpha men. Her love for quirky small-towns and the characters that inhabit them shines through in her writing. Take a walk on the wild side of romance with her bestselling novels!

  BookBub

  Instagram

  Facebook

  Website

  Reader Group

  Newsletter

  Chapter One

  ADELINE

  The snow comes down in long, curving streaks and hits my windshield, where it melts because I’ve got the defroster turned up as far as it’ll go. When I was a kid I loved driving in the snow with my parents. I’d pretend we were in a spaceship, warping into light speed. Boldly going, et cetera.

  Now that I’m the one driving, I’m considerably less excited. Not only is it hard to see, but it’s been snowing long enough and hard enough that the road is now covered in a thin layer of the stuff, with only two black tracks along the asphalt where other cars have been driving.

  Not that I see any other cars right now. Apparently everyone but me got the memo that it was going to snow, and no one else decided to drive over the mountain after dark on Christmas Eve.

  I keep driving and tell myself I’ll be fine, that in forty-five minutes I’ll be curled up on my couch with a cozy blanket and my favorite holiday movie, A Nightmare Before Christmas. I remind myself that tons of people live in places like New England, where it snows all the time and they drive around like nothing’s happening and it’s no big deal. I try to remember everything I’ve ever learned about driving in the snow.

  Turns out that it starts and ends with go slow, I guess, because snow driving is not a topic addressed by even one driving instructor in the South. Our game plan for winter weather is simple:

  1. Panic.

  2. Buy all the bread and milk at Kroger. Fight someone if you must.

  3. Under no circumstances buy weather-appropriate clothing.

  4. Don’t leave your house until the weather is over and everything has melted, three days later.

  As I’m ruminating that I’m still on step one, headlights come up behind me, and I sigh with relief as I slow from twenty miles an hour to fifteen, then creep around a sharp bend in the road. At least if I get stuck in a ditch, there’s someone else to witness my tragic demise.

  Then the headlights get closer, and I frown. I grip my steering wheel a little tighter, because that is not a safe following distance, particularly in these conditions.

  They get even closer, and now, I can barely see even though I flip my rear-view mirror to night mode. The vehicle behind me is an SUV or something, so the lights are high off the ground, totally blinding. I squint and hold up one hand.

  Just go around me, I think. For fuck’s sake.

  Instead, they flash their brights.

  “Okay, asshole,” I say aloud, and slow down. This guy want to be a danger, he can do it in slow motion.

  I keep driving. Every time I go around a curve I can feel my wheels slip a little, no matter how slowly I take it. I’m sweating, but I don’t dare use a hand to turn the heat down. My hands would probably be shaking if I weren’t gripping the steering wheel so tightly.

  Still, this asshole behind me is tailgating and flashing his brights.

  And then, finally, it happens. There’s a curve on an incline, the kind of thing that takes drivers by surprise in perfect conditions.

  Halfway up it, my tires start slipping. The car slides a little to the left, just across the yellow line.

  I, a southerner who has studiously avoided driving in snow her entire life, panic. I slam on the brakes, then slam on the gas. For some reason, I put my car into second gear, and it does absolutely nothing so I do the brakes and the gas again and then the brakes because I have absolutely no idea what to do and —

  Then I’m in the ditch.

  It’s almost gentle, like the ditch is giving me a hug. I must have just experienced the world’s slowest traffic accident, my little sedan gliding off the road, bumping to a stop at a steep angle.

  The car behind me revs, takes the curve, steadily climbs the hill.

  “Screw you,” I mutter. “Seriously? You’re not even stopping?”

  I know instinctively that my car’s not going anywhere, but I try anyway. My engine roars and my tires spin. Fuck. Fuck. I’ve got AAA but I don’t want to spend Christmas Eve waiting hours for them to come to the back of beyond and drag me out, I want to go home and drink my hot drink and watch my movie and then wake up in the morning to discover that Santa brought me exactly the new raised flowerbeds I’ve been wanting.

  Up ahead, a pair of red lights stops at the top of the hill, two bright spots against the dark of the night. I frown, then wait for them to drive off, but they don’t. Long moments pass, and nothing happens.

  “Fine,” I say aloud, tear my seatbelt off, and get out of my car. The headlights are still on, and I stay in their beam as I stomp toward the very large vehicle up ahead.

  “Hey!” I shout.

  Nothing happens. I stomp more.

  “HEY!” I shout louder. “WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM?”

  I’m almost up the hill now, and I can see that what I thought was a big SUV is, in fact, a completely ludicrous pickup truck. The tires must be four feet tall. The bottom of the driver’s-side door is at eye level.

  Also, the paint job is… red-and-green stripes?

  I don’t have time to process that, because the driver’s side door opens.

  A moment later, Santa jumps down.

  I stop, because this is getting too weird. Not only did Santa just jump out of a giant pickup truck, he doesn’t exactly move like an old man who eats too many cookies.

  In fact, he doesn’t have a classic Santa bod at all, which I can tell even though he’s wearing the whole costume, hat and beard included.

  No, Santa is… hot?

  “You ran me off the road!” I shout before I can get any further with that train of thought.

  “You ran your —”

  Santa swipes at the beard as strands blow into his mouth.

  “That’s not how you drive in — shit.”

  That last word is said at a normal volume, as he turns away. He yanks the beard and hat off, tosses them into the cab of the truck.

  Then he turns back around, and my stomach drops straight out of my chest cavity.

  I know Santa. I’ve met Santa before.

  Met isn’t the right word. I made out with Santa. Against a tree. In the woods. At my best friend’s wedding.

  Santa touched my boobs at my inebriated urging, and I liked it.

  And then he never called.

  I ba
nish all boob-touching thoughts, ball my fists at my sides, and take a deep breath.

  “What the hell?” I shout.

  Chapter Two

  GRADY

  I almost wish I’d just driven off. Hell, I go ahead and give it some quick consideration right now: I’m sure she’s got a cell phone and Triple-A, and they won’t be more than a few hours. She can play some phone games until they get here, and I won’t have to be inconvenienced in the least.

  Obviously, I can’t do that. I’m sure some people can leave a motorist stranded on a snowy Christmas Eve, but I was raised right.

  “Don’t you have any clue how to drive in snow?” I shout down the hill. “You can’t just go five miles an hour and think you’re gonna get anywhere, you gotta build up speed or you’re gonna land in the ditch!”

  “Of course I don’t know how to drive in the snow!” she shouts, the wind whipping through her words. “This is the south! And I was doing just fine until you drove up behind me with your big-ass truck and its big-ass wheels and shone your big-ass lights until I couldn’t see shit!”

  “Because you were just begging to spin out and slide right off the road!”

  Adeline crosses her arms over her chest and looks away, like I’ve really pissed her off. I fold my arms over my chest too, bracing myself against the wind sneaking through my Santa costume.

  Back at the hospital, this polyester monstrosity was way too hot, so all I’ve got on underneath is my boxers. Out here, it’s way too cold, though that’s far from the only reason I desperately wish I’d changed before I left.

  For starters, I really wish I weren’t facing Adeline for the first time in months wearing the crushed velvet uniform of an old fat man, though at least I took the stuffing out of the front. I’m no fashion expert, but I’ve got a sneaking suspicion it’s not my best look.

  Last time I saw her, I was in a suit. This is a major step down.

  After a long moment, I sigh, then crunch through the new-fallen snow and head down the hill, toward her.

  “Maybe your reindeer can pull it out,” she says, sarcastically. “Or did they abandon you because you drive like an asshole?”

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” I say, quickly surveying her car. “If I had reindeer, why would I be driving?”

  “If you’re Santa, why are you in the world’s most ludicrous truck?” she asks.

  I crouch down and look under her tilted car, already shivering.

  “Santa does what Santa wants,” I respond.

  “Fucking apparently,” she mutters.

  “It doesn’t look like anything’s broken,” I say, standing again. “Axles look like they’re fine, all your tires are still good —”

  “And the only problem is that it won’t go anywhere because you ran me into —”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, cutting her off.

  Adeline stops. Her face softens microscopically.

  “It’s Christmas Eve, I had a long day, I just wanted to get this stuff to my parents’ house before midnight,” I say. “I apologize.”

  She takes a deep breath, then sighs, like the fight’s gone out of her.

  “Thanks,” she says. “I’ve got triple-A, they’ll come pull me out. It’s fine.”

  She’s right. They will. Eventually.

  I clear my throat.

  “Let me give you a ride,” I tell her.

  Adeline makes a skeptical face.

  “It’s late, it’s Christmas Eve, it’s snowing,” I say. “There’s no way you’re the only one in a ditch, and Triple-A will be hours.”

  I can tell from her face that she knows I’m right. I can also see that she wants to say no anyway.

  “I’ve got a thermos full of hot cocoa in the truck,” I coax.

  “You do? Why?”

  “Because I’m Santa,” I say, like it’s obvious, and for the first time that night, Adeline smiles. It’s ever so slightly crooked, and it lights up her pretty face like a sunrise over the ocean.

  “You’re an asshole Santa,” she says. “I’m pretty sure the real guy would never approve of you. Naughty list for sure.”

  “That’s not the only reason,” I tell her without thinking.

  Adeline blushes, hard, and I suddenly find myself absolutely transfixed with a rock on the side of the road.

  Actually, the last naughty thing I did was at my buddy Eli’s wedding last summer, when I pushed Adeline up against a tree with her legs wrapped around me as she pulled me in by my tie. All we did was make out, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how adults are supposed to act at a wedding.

  Particularly not a small, intimate, family-and-close friends wedding. It’s not as if there was anyone else making out against a tree.

  Besides, when I asked for her number, she gave me the number for a for Burley County Sanitation.

  You know, the dump. I got the message.

  “Come on,” I say. “Truck’s still warm.”

  Adeline locks her car, and we crunch up the hill in silence.

  Chapter Three

  ADELINE

  There’s a ladder into this truck. Literally. It’s so far off the ground that there’s a ladder to get in, which might be the silliest thing I’ve ever seen.

  Wait, no. The silliest thing I’ve ever seen is the red-and-green striped paint job, which upon closer inspection is clearly supposed to resemble wrapping paper.

  Grady heaves himself into the cab, pulls his door shut, and looks over at me with a smile on his face. He’s got rich brown hair that’s a little floppy, blue eyes, full lips, and the kind of jawline that silent movie starlets would swoon over.

  Plus, there’s just something very… charming about him. Rakish, even. Something about him always feels like he’s goading me on, teasing me, and I’m not sure I hate it.

  “I live on this side of the reservoir,” I tell him. “You know the Green Oaks neighborhood? I’m right around there.”

  Grady looks very, very thoughtful as he turns the key and waits for the engine to rumble to life, all the way on the other side of the truck. He’s so far away I feel like we should be using the telephone.

  Not that he seems to use the telephone.

  “Actually,” he says. “Do you mind if we make a stop first?”

  I don’t answer, I just wait, because I could have sworn that this man who just ran me off the road on Christmas Eve thinks he’s going grocery shopping before he takes me home.

  “My parents just got a couple new foster kids a few days ago, and the stuff in the back is for them,” he says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

  I turn, look into the back of the pickup truck, but there’s a cap on it and I can’t see anything.

  “It was kind of a last-minute surprise, so my parents weren’t really prepared and didn’t have a chance to get them anything for Christmas,” he goes on voice soft, serious. “A brother and sister. Bad situation. I was hoping to get over there before they all go to bed.”

  Something about the way he says it all makes my heart twist. Siblings, bad situation. Even though I had a totally happy childhood and love my parents and sister to death, bad things happening to kids always gets me. They’re just kids, you know?

  I swallow the sudden lump in my throat.

  “Sure,” I say, and he gives me the charming, devil-may-care grin I remember so well from last summer.

  “Thanks,” he says. “We shouldn’t be more than an hour or two. Unless you want to stay for dinner.”

  It’s hard to be angry with someone who’s risking life and limb to deliver Christmas presents to unfortunate children. It’s even harder to be angry when he’s coming from a stint playing Santa at the children’s wing of the hospital a couple towns over, filling in for a friend who works at the local country radio station.

  At least that explains the truck. It belongs to KXBZ, Home of the Best Country Music in the Blue Ridge, the annual sponsor of Redneck Santa’s Big Ol’ Christmas Hootenanny. Luckily for us, it’s also got four-wheel drive
and Grady seems to know how to drive it.

  “Your parents are foster parents?” I ask as we drive down the mountain, the snow still slashing into the windshield.

  “Yeah,” he says, still totally focused on the road. “They started doing it when my oldest sister left for college, said the house was too quiet without all of us there. So they imported some five-year-olds. Been doing it ever since.”

  I look out the window for a few moments, thinking.

  “That must be really hard,” I finally say.

  Grady brakes carefully going around a curve, doesn’t answer until we’re out of it.

  “I think it takes a very particular kind of person,” he finally says. “I don’t think I could do it. I was fourteen when they took in the first pair, and after those two got adopted by a family down in Emporia I cried my eyes out.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “You must get really attached.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t do it,” he says. “My parents are older, and I think they see themselves as sort of a… safe harbor for these kids on their way to something permanent, whether it’s back to their parents or to adoption. I’m still Facebook friends with those two. The oldest one’s in college.”

  Grady grabs a thermos mug and takes a sip.

  “What about you? Christmas plans?”

  “You mean besides calling a tow company?”

  He shoots me an irritated look.

  “I didn’t have a thing to do with you going in that ditch,” he says. “You slid down that hill all on your —”

  “Okay, okay,” I say, especially because I’m beginning to suspect that he’s right, based on his snow driving strategy, which differs considerably from mine.

  I take a deep breath and clear my throat.

  “I’m gonna snuggle up on my couch and watch Nightmare Before Christmas,” I say. “Tomorrow I’m doing Christmas with some friends.”