It Happened One Christmas, page 13
I turned my attention back to Ben. I needed to get him warm, quickly. I looked down at my clothes. Both my pants and top were soaked from the storm and sweat, from getting us here. Despair washed over me. What was I going to do? I pulled off my gloves and blew on my hands. What would happen to Ben if I didn’t get him out of his wet clothes?
Wait—the truck. My suitcase. Ben’s emergency kit. Dry clothes. The sleeping bag, the candles, the matches. If I could get them and bring them back to the farmhouse, we would have something to help us warm up.
I looked toward the broken window. Outside, the wind was howling, the freezing rain still pounding down as heavily as ever. Was I really going to go back out there? Just the thought filled me with doubt, but I tried to ignore it. If I’d learned anything from working in the entertainment industry, it was that self-doubt was not an action plan. It was a helpless move that showed weakness. I was tougher than that.
If Simon were a Saint Bernard, he could go out to the truck and retrieve our things, and I could stay with Ben, but he wasn’t. No, I’d have to go alone. I squared my shoulders and pulled open the door, which made Simon jump to his feet and look at me curiously. I shook my head and pointed to Ben. “Stay,” I said firmly. If Ben woke up he could be scared or confused. Having Simon by his side would at least reassure him.
The husky walked over to Ben and sat down, his eyes on me.
“Good dog.”
I stepped out onto the porch and closed the door. In the few minutes that I’d been inside the farmhouse, the temperature outside seemed to have taken a steep nosedive. One tentative step at a time. Just as I was taking my third step, I heard a loud crunch and the ground collapsed under my foot, sending it through the ice, down into the two feet of snow and slush below. I put all my weight on my right foot to pull my left foot out but the added weight caused the ice to give way under my right foot, sending it down just as my left foot broke free.
I swiped at a tear, and pulled myself onto the ice again just as the limb of a large maple broke off and fell to the ground in front of me. I gasped, then jumped aside, slipped on the ice, and fell on my hip. I screamed in frustration, pulled myself up again and took a few more steps toward the truck. But in the time we’d been gone the truck had slid past the tree, and the front end of it was submerged in the pond. I gasped. Water covered the driver’s side up to the seat, and I knew there was a good chance that by the time this storm was over, the truck would entirely be in the water. We’d been right to leave. Bracing myself on another tree trunk, the rain stinging my face, I pulled open the halfdoor that gave access to the back seat.
The emergency kit was on the floor, behind the front seats, and I gently pulled it out, paranoid that any movement might jostle the truck enough to send it completely into the pond. I placed the kit on the frozen ground and then reached for my suitcase. Once both were out of the truck, I shut the door and began walking back toward the farmhouse. Both cases were heavy and unwieldy, the wheels of mine catching on the ice and snow with nearly every step. Tears—some from the sleet and some from sheer exhaustion—hovered on my eyelids, but I gritted my teeth and dug my feet into the ice, squeezing my thighs to steady myself.
A few minutes later, I had made it back into the farmhouse. Simon, who’d been at Ben’s side, ran over to me, wagging his tail and nuzzling his snout against my leg. I’d hoped that Ben would wake up in the few minutes I was gone, but he was exactly as I’d left him. Still breathing. Still warm. Still unconscious. I quickly stood up. I had to get him out of his wet clothes otherwise he would freeze. With numb fingers I started with his boots, fumbling as I untied the double-knotted laces. I worked his sweater up his body, sliding his arms out and then the rest of the sweater over his head. Underneath, his navy T-shirt rode up, revealing his taut stomach. The T-shirt was cold and damp, and I paused, then lifted that off, too. My breath caught in my throat. His chest was broad, his skin smooth, with little hair. On his left arm a tattoo of a tall, thin evergreen tree wrapped around his bicep. So the Christmas tree farm guy had a Christmas tree tattoo. My eyes wandered over his torso, taking in his smooth skin. It was difficult not to stare. But I shook myself out of it and took a breath. I had to get his pants off. I focused on his belt buckle, then pulled the square metal back, and it released the prong from the wet brown leather of his belt. What if Ben were to wake up at this very moment, just as I was undoing his pants? What would he think? He would think you were trying to save his life.
And I was—while also admiring the scenery. And what scenery it was. Undoing the single button at the top of Ben’s jeans revealed a whorl of fine brown hair that led from his navel to…
Don’t get distracted, Zo.
But it was legit distracting. I gulped. Although I was wet and freezing, a rush of heat coursed through my body.
I pulled down the zipper. My fingers shook as I began shimmying his jeans over his hips. I paused. Was he going to be one of those big-boxers-with-dogs-on-them kind of underwear-wearing guy? Or would he…
He was the smooth, tight, boxer-brief kind of guy. I let out an involuntary satisfied sigh, then pulled the jeans down and off his legs and into a heap on the floor. Now I had to get Ben warmed up. I opened the emergency kit and pulled out the sleeping bag, quickly unzipping it and wrapping it around him, tucking it in at the sides. Would that be warm enough? I should get him dressed, but one look at the dry jeans was too much. As I considered what to do, I noticed that my own hands were trembling. My soaked clothes were making me colder by the second. I had to get them off.
I took a deep breath and stripped off my jeans, then my sweater. Quelling all doubts, as well as any thoughts at all, because if I did think about it I would perhaps realize how crazy this was, I got under the sleeping bag beside Ben. I retucked the sleeping bag around us, then ran a palm over his back, his arms, his chest, to create friction. I wrapped my arm around him, and closed my eyes. Skin to skin, our body heat intermingled, and I listened to his breathing, slow and steady. Then the thought occurred: What if he didn’t wake up?
I couldn’t think like that. I squeezed him tight against me. Ben had to wake up.
This—taking care of someone in an abandoned farmhouse while they were unconscious—was probably the closest I’d come to a domestic life in a house in the past five years. Even with Tomas, there was nothing like this. Sure, we had a nice couch and an Eames chair that I found on Facebook Marketplace, and Tomas had hung some bright original paintings on the walls—but there was no caring for each other. There were parties. There was hot sex. There was the planned vacation to Tenerife. But there was very little snuggling and watching a movie, or taking care of Tomas when he was sick, or Tomas making me dinner when I was working on a deadline. With him, it was all appearances and nothing inside—like the beautiful porcelain Royal Doulton figurines my grandmother would collect, the hole in the base revealing their empty interiors.
I wanted more in a relationship—inside jokes, crossing places to visit off a shared bucket list, getting a little bungalow together. Caring for someone—though maybe not while they were unconscious. It would’ve been nice if they could conduct a conversation. I would’ve preferred to start with a hangover, or the flu. And perhaps with someone who liked me and whom I actually liked, not like my actual nemesis. Whom I happened to be spooning, nearly naked, my arms wrapped around his chiseled chest, my bra pressed against his back.
Oh Ben.
I had always been a go-getter, someone who took charge and made things happen—like standing in Roberto’s office four days ago, taking the film-permit issue into my own hands. I got things done myself because I knew what to do. But now, stranded in an abandoned farmhouse, I was the only one who could fix this problem, but I had no idea what to do next. I hugged Ben tighter, and wrapped my bare legs around his. My frozen toes were beginning to feel a little less icy. Simon sauntered over and nuzzled my neck. Then he turned around once, twice, and settled down beside me.
For months, this film had been the most important thing in my life—so important that anything that wasn’t the film was put on the backburner. I’d said no to beach days with friends, a girls’ trip to Cabo, lunch dates with colleagues, even nights out on the town with Tomas. I hadn’t even committed to seeing Stella during my Christmas break. And now look at me. I was thirty and sandwiched between a dog and a small-town mayor on the floor of an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. I’d always told myself that my professional success was the most important thing; that it didn’t matter if I missed another holiday with family, because one day, once I was married and had kids, I’d be home for Christmas. I’d get the big house with the fireplace. We’d cut a tree and hang stockings. I’d make a gingerbread house. I’d start the traditions I’d longed to have my entire life, once I met the right person and got married and all that. And that just hadn’t happened yet, so, for now, I’d focus on work.
When Tomas and I were together, I’d just do whatever he wanted to do for Christmas. Two years ago, we celebrated December 25th on a beach in Aruba; last year, we’d gone parasailing in Cancun. These were amazing experiences, and I’d loved them, for sure, but what did I have to show for it in this moment? And now my movie was in major jeopardy because of this guy I was lying next to, whom I couldn’t even help? What was the point of all my ambition if I was just going to die out in the Quebec wilderness?
But I couldn’t think like this—I had to focus on this moment and what I was going to do right now. I couldn’t change any of the details that had led up to us being here, and I certainly couldn’t predict the future.
Action is the antidote to anxiety, I reminded myself as though I were scrolling through cheesy inspo quotes on Instagram. I closed my eyes and thought about my film, playing through scenes. Ruby and Jacques’s story always kept me going, kept me focused, whenever I felt beat down by other aspects of my life. It would get me through now, too. Could I incorporate some of the details of the past few days into the film? I felt my mind starting to clear and a sense of purpose and motivation creeping in. I looked around the farmhouse, picturing it as the cabin Ruby rented for the holidays. The far wall, with the clock, transformed into a roaring fire in an old stone fireplace surrounded by a hearth of rough-hewn logs, casting a golden light across the room. I could almost feel the heat, could nearly smell the woodsmoke. The crackle of logs filled the air. I looked around, letting my imagination consume me. The pot in the sink was dirty because Jacques had made hot toddies for him and Ruby after they’d wrapped all the gifts for his many cousins. Wait—Jacques didn’t have cousins; Ben had loads of them. I considered it, but maybe it would be a nice touch for Jacques to have a big extended family. As he and Ruby sipped their drinks and talked about their favorite Christmas traditions on the cozy and comfortable couch, Jacques would fall asleep, and after a few minutes, Ruby would curl up beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. She wouldn’t let him spend the night—what would her girls think?—but she didn’t want to wake him up just yet, didn’t want to let him go.
I yawned. It was likely only two or three in the afternoon at this point, but because it was so dark outside, it felt like night. Not to mention that the stress of the accident, of getting Ben to the farmhouse, had made me so tired. I tightened my arm over Ben’s warm chest and rested my chin on his shoulder.
Even if he was grumpy, and kind of rude and selfish, and was stopping me from achieving one of my life’s goals, he was probably a good guy. People seemed to like him. He had stopped a really drunk guy from harassing me, and he seemed very close to Xavier and his kids. He’d taken over his father’s business. And he was mayor of Chelsea when he was so young. But he’d wasted my time in the town, when he knew without the town permit there was no way I’d be able to make my film. Though he’d tried to get me to Wakefield. He’d genuinely seemed like he wanted to help me—provided it wasn’t in his town. But he was also stubborn and self-righteous and utterly maddening. But he was so good-looking and fit. So were lots of guys. So why was I so attracted to him? What was it about him? I could feel Ben’s chest rising and falling against my skin. His skin was so soft. He smelled so good.
I sighed, and closed my eyes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tuesday, December 23, 3:30 p.m.
Ben stirred, causing my eyes to fly open. He made a low groaning sound. I untangled myself from the sleeping bag, stood, and promptly tripped over Simon. I got myself vertical again. Ben’s eyes were open, and looking at me.
“Oh thank god,” I said, not hiding my relief.
Ben scratched his head. “Why are you in your underwear?” I looked down. There I was, half-naked, for all the world to see. Or at least, for Ben to see.
“It was an emergency,” I said, flustered, then turned around, looking for my bag. I bent down and rummaged in it for dry, warm layers. Yoga pants, a tank top, my UCLA hoodie. While I dressed, Ben’s attention was on Simon. He stretched and rolled over onto his back, baring his white underbelly. “Bon chien,” he said, scratching the dog’s midsection.
“Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?” he said, his voice low and gruff. Then he looked around the room, blinking several times.
“I still don’t understand French,” I reminded him. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” Ben said, seemingly unaware he’d been unconscious. “Where are we?” He rubbed his face. “Oh, I remember. The storm.” He looked at me. “Zoey, what time is it?”
I looked around for my phone, then remembered it was dead. “I’m not sure. My phone’s dead, and there’s no service anyway. I put yours in my pocket.” I walked over to my coat, which was hanging on a hook in the wall. It was still wet. I reached into the pocket, and pulled out Ben’s phone, then handed it to him.
“Tabernac. It’s dead, too.” Ben stretched his arms over his head. “I fell asleep?”
“Sort of—if you call getting into a car accident and losing consciousness ‘falling sleep,’ ” I joked. “Don’t fall asleep again, okay? How do you feel actually?” I studied his face. He looked okay—not like he’d been in an accident earlier that day.
“Weird,” he said slowly. “Like, just sort of out of it. Disoriented. I was unconscious? We got in an accident?” He stretched his neck this way and that, trying to loosen the tight muscles.
“Be careful. You might have broken something. Or, I guess, more accurately, I might have caused you to break something,” I added, biting my lip. “Sorry.”
“Oh man, I’m just so stiff.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
I studied him. “Do you know your name?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Mon nom? Emile Benoît Deschamps. Oh wait, that’s my dad’s name.” He grinned, winking at me. “So does that mean I have amnesia or I don’t have amnesia?”
“Don’t joke. You could have a concussion, and my only training for that is the time I directed a film where the hero had a concussion and lost his memory and the heroine had to help him get it back by Christmas Eve or—”
“Or what? Christmas wouldn’t happen that year?”
“They wouldn’t be able to get married, as per her long-standing tradition.”
“Ahh, the old marry-someone-who-doesn’t-know-your-name-on-Christmas-Eve tradition. How could I have forgotten?” The corner of his lip curled up.
Sarcastic Ben was back. And yet his edge was dulled. “Wow, you must be okay if you’re making fun of me.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m teasing, Zoey. I was always teasing.”
“Hmph.” I looked around the room. Outside the window, the clouds were dark. I shivered. Without the warmth of our bodies together, I was reminded how cold it was in the farmhouse.
Ben looked down at himself. “What happened to my shirt? My pants?” My eyes went to his bare chest. I could still feel his soft skin on mine. He cleared his throat and I realized he was staring at me, but he looked more amused than annoyed.
“They were soaked through. I was worried about hypothermia.”
“You were worried?”
I scowled at him. “Obviously. I’m not a monster.”
“So you…” His voice showed interest.
“I didn’t look.” My face heated up, and I hoped the farmhouse was dark enough that he didn’t notice.
“Removing my clothes with your eyes closed. Did you go to magician’s school for that particular skill?” he teased.
I rolled my eyes. “You know what? You’re welcome.”
His smile disappeared and he looked me deep in the eyes. “Thank you,” he said so genuinely that it felt like there were champagne bubbles in my stomach. I shivered again, but this time not because I was cold.
He stood up and walked around the room. I tried not to admire his legs, which were long and muscular, dark hair running their length. “So, where are we?”
“Not the Beverly Hills Hotel, that’s for sure,” I said jokingly. “Did you see that farmhouse right before we crashed?”
Ben turned back to me, his eyes wide. “What—or who—did we hit?” Lines formed between his eyebrows.
My expression softened. Right—we could have hit someone. We could have hurt someone. “Just a tree.”
“Okay. So we were driving, the storm was bad. I do remember sliding. But how—where…?” He scratched his chin.
“It got really icy, really fast,” I explained. “And then we hit the tree. And then your truck slid into the pond. Well most of it anyway.”
“How did you get me in here?”
“I dragged you,” I said simply.
“But how? I weigh so much more than you.” His eyes showed concern.
