“O11:59 p.m.
ne more minute!” Logan exclaims.
I swear, he’s one of the few people I know who still gets ridiculously excited about New
Year’s Eve. Me, I never cared much for the holiday to begin with, and over the years my interest levels have only decreased.
But my boyfriend is grinning happily as he watches the clock on his phone tick down. Thanks to the blizzard raging outside our car, both of our phones lost their signals a long time ago, but at least the battery life is going strong.
The champagne bottle is poised in Logan’s hand. Suddenly he looks over, worried. “Who gets the first sip?” he demands. “We don’t have glasses!”
“You can have the first sip,” I say graciously. “You sure?”
“I mean, I guess? I really wanted it, but…” In reality I don’t give a hoot who gets the first drink of the new year. But if I make him think I’m doing him a huge favor, I could remind him of this moment the next time he vetoes all my movie picks on Netflix. “It’s okay. You do it.”
He practically beams at me. It takes very little to make this man happy.
“Thirty seconds,” he warns. “Sit up, woman.”
I swallow a laugh and straighten up. Logan’s blue eyes stay glued to his phone. “We’re almost at the countdown. I expect some enthusiastic yelling. Ready, babe?”
“Sure. But we don’t have to yell—” “TEN!”
Oh brother.
“NINE!” he shouts, motioning me with his hand to join
in.
And because I love this guy with all my heart, I make
him happy and scream right along with him. When we finish shouting “ONE!”, Logan throws in a “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” and then kisses me deeply.
I return the kiss, pulling back to whisper, “Happy New Year, Johnny.”
“Happy New Year, Gracie.”
With a little boy smile, he raises the bottle to his lips and takes the first sip of champagne.
2:00 a.m.
The tow truck still hasn’t arrived.
It’s been hours since the clock struck midnight, and Logan and I have already polished off the entire champagne bottle. Now we’re tipsy and warm in the back seat, regaling each other with random childhood tales.
His stories lack the levity that mine possess, which isn’t too surprising. Logan’s parents are divorced and his father is a recovering alcoholic, so he didn’t have the easiest upbringing. But he does have some good memories with his brother. My parents are also divorced, but they remained close friends, so my family stories are much happier.
As we laugh and snuggle and share memories, we’re constantly touching each other. He strokes my hair. I play with the stubble rising on his strong jaw. His whiskers scrape my fingertips, but when he ruefully says he needs to shave, I disagree. I think he’s sexy and manly, and I can’t stop touching him. It’s been like that since the moment we met. My college freshman self fell hard for John Logan, and he hasn’t left my system since.
Hopefully he never does.
“Do you think they’re ever going to show up?” I ask as I press my nose to the cold window. Beyond the pane, the world is an endless swirl of snow.
“They said six hours,” he reminds me. “It hasn’t been six hours yet.”
“It’s been five and a half.” “Five and a half isn’t six.”
“But why aren’t they here yet?” I whine. “Because it hasn’t been six hours!”
“Stop saying that!”
Logan bursts out laughing, while I continue to look miserably out the window.
“What if we starve to death?” “We won’t,” he assures me.
“What if we die of exposure and—oh my God. I just realized something. What if we’re being punished?”
He sighs. “All right. I’ll bite. Punished for what and by whom?”
“By Alexander! For hating him. What if he did this?” I gasp suddenly. “Oh my God, Logan, do you think this is how Willie felt when he was lying at the bottom of that ravine with his broken leg? Before his spirit entered Alexander? Do you think he knew he was going to die?”
Logan doesn’t speak for a moment. Then he nods. “I’ve made the decision to ignore you for the next ten minutes, or however long it takes for the terror to leave my body.”
2:42 a.m.
I wrest my gaze away from the window and release a long, bleak sigh. “All right. I think it’s time.”
His brow furrows. “Time for what?” “To make a pact.”
“What pact?”
I pull the blanket tighter around our lower bodies. “We could be stuck here for days. Weeks, even.”
“It won’t be days or weeks, you crazy woman.”
I jut my chin stubbornly. “It could be. And if that happens, there’s a good chance we’ll die from starvation or exposure like Willie did on the California Trail. And unless we decide on a synchronized murder-suicide, obviously one of us will die before the other. So if that happens, we need to make a pact.”
“What fucking pact?” he growls.
“If we’re dealing with a starvation situation, the person who’s still alive has to eat the dead one.”
Logan stares at me.
“What?” I say defensively. “It’s a matter of survival.” “You want us to eat each other.”
“Well, not each other. Only one of us will need to do it. And I just want you to know—if I die first, I give you permission to eat me. Do whatever you need to do to survive. No judgment whatsoever from beyond the grave.”
He just stares again.
“So it’s a pact? The living one eats the dead one? There’s a Swiss Army knife in the emergency kit. Oh, and I think the butt is the best part to cut into. Fleshier.”
“No,” he says emphatically.
“Yes,” I insist. “The butt is the best part—”
“No, as in, I’m not cutting off a piece of your sweet ass and consuming it,” he clarifies. “I’d rather we just die in each other’s arms, old-people-in-Titanic style.”
I shake my head in disappointment. “Fine, don’t agree to the pact. I’m still doing it.”
“A pact requires the agreement of both parties,” he argues.
“Not when my life is at stake.” I stick my tongue out. “Sorry, babe, but I’m eating your ass whether you like it or not.”
I don’t realize how poorly I worded that until after the words exit my mouth, which earns me howls and howls of laughter from my immature boyfriend.
3:02 a.m.
“Okay, it’s obviously been fourteen hours—” “Six,” Logan corrects.
“—and they’re still not here.” My teeth nearly poke a hole through the inside of my cheek. “I don’t think they’ll be able to find us.”
“They have our exact location.”
“Yeah, but the car is covered in snow. They won’t see us. And then when the blizzard ends, we’ll have to dig our way out.” I give him a firm look. “You really need to agree to the pact.”
“Never. And we won’t have to dig ourselves out. We’re fine.” But my concerns do spur him into action. He reaches for the door handle and curses when it takes several hard pushes to get it open. “I’ll be right back.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Scrape the snow off so they can see the car. And I’d better turn on the emergency blinkers now. The cavalry should be here any minute.”
I start to push the blanket off. “Let me help.” “No way. It’s too cold. Stay here.”
He goes outside and starts scraping, until his handsome face eventually appears on the other side of the window.
His features are creased with focus, which brings a smile to my lips. No matter what John Logan does, he gives it 110 percent of his concentration.
Fifteen minutes later he’s back in the car, shaking snow off himself like a dog shaking off water after a swim. He crawls under the blanket, and I try to warm him up.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, his broad frame shivering in my arms.
“Aww, baby.” I rub his back in an attempt to infuse him with warmth. It doesn’t really work, so I make an executive decision to blast the heat even though I know we’re slowly draining our gas tank and battery.
3:46 a.m.
“The tow truck still isn’t here. They’re almost an hour late and I fear for our lives. Who knows, maybe they’ll never show up. We might be trapped here forever. Our bodies will be found years later and—”
“Oh, would you cut it out.” Logan grabs the phone from my hand and addresses the camera. “We’re not going to die. We are just fine.” He pauses for a beat. “But in the event that we do die: Mom, I love you. I want you to know you’re the greatest—”
“Hey!” I punch him in the shoulder. “Stop using up my battery for your goodbyes. You don’t even believe we’re going to die.” I snatch the phone and talk to it. “He won’t even make a pact to eat each other, you guys! What kind of boyfriend is that? I’m offering him sustenance to live and he won’t eat me!”
Logan’s lips suddenly press against my cheek. “You want me to eat you?” he says silkily. “I’ll fucking eat you, baby.”
“John,” I gasp, aghast. I look at the camera. “Pretend you didn’t hear that, Dad!”
Then I stop recording, and Logan and I start making out while the snow continues to fall beyond the car.
4:22 a.m.
“Well, there goes our tank,” Logan remarks as the vents release their final burst of hot air. The tow truck still hasn’t arrived, and we’ve officially run out of gas.
“The offer to eat me after I die still stands,” I tell him. “That’s how much I love you.”
He sighs.
4:49 a.m.
I’m curled up in Logan’s strong arms, sleepy and contented, as his long fingers play with my hair.
“Missed this,” he mumbles.
I twist my head to look at him. “What?” “Cuddling with you. Being with you.”
A lump lodges in my throat. “Me too.”
Silence settles between us. The last few years flash through my mind. How we first got together. All the changes in our relationship since Logan graduated from Briar. When he played for Boston’s farm team, I thought that schedule was hectic. Now he’s in the pros, and this schedule is a thousand times more intense.
I reach up to stroke his chiseled jaw. “There’s nobody else I’d rather freeze to death with than you.”
His chest vibrates from laughter. “Right back atcha, gorgeous.”
5:13 a.m.
I’m jolted awake by the sound of honking. Logan nudges me off him and reaches for the door.
“I think they’re here,” he says.
I fly into a sitting position. “It’s about time! They’re like eighteen hours late.”
“Two,” he corrects, grinning at me. “In blizzard years, that’s eighteen.”
“Drama queen.” He chuckles and hops out of the car before I can take offense.
I zip up my jacket and follow him outside, where my heart immediately does a happy flip. Two beams of light break the pitch-black night. Or morning, rather.
I glimpse a shadowy figure, and then a male voice wafts toward us from the top of the slope.
“You folks called for assistance?”
