My pounding heart nearly busts out of my chest horror-movie style as the SUV fishtails dizzyingly out of control. When it finally comes to a stop, my hands are shaking and I’m weak with relief.
I plaster my face to the window. All I see is total darkness, broken only by the thin columns of the headlights. They’re pointing at a stretch of white. Nothing but snow fills my line of sight. We’re at the bottom of a small slope, but it might as well be a mountain. When I peer up to where I think the road is, it feels impossibly far.
Logan is breathing hard beside me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” We didn’t hit anything. We’re both in one piece, and so is our vehicle. “We have four-wheel drive, right? Can we make it back up to the road?”
He purses his lips. Assesses the situation. “I mean, we can try. Worst-case scenario, I’ll get out and push.”
“You’re going to push an SUV up a snow hill?” I say in dismay. “I mean, I know you’re a big sexy beast, but—”
“Thanks, baby.” He sputters out a laugh.
“No problem. But I don’t think you’re strong enough for the job.”
“Ye of little faith.”
I roll my eyes. “Prove me wrong, then. But let’s do it now, because I’d like to try to get out of here before we die.”
“We’re not going to die.” But there’s a serious note in his voice.
He moves the gearshift to drive and gently presses the gas pedal. The car eases forward, much to my relief. Good. At least we’re not stuck in some inescapable snowdrift.
Logan drives a few feet, then starts to turn toward the slope. It’s not at all steep, but the Mercedes ascends only about a foot before it struggles. Logan hits the gas. The car won’t budge another inch.
“Shit.” He accelerates again.
I feel the tires laboring to try to gain some traction.
But it’s not happening.
“Guess I’m pushing,” Logan says in resignation. As I look on miserably, he reverses down the slope and puts the car in park. “All right, gorgeous. It’s your time to shine.”
I laugh weakly.
He zips up his coat and grabs his wool hat from the center console. He shoves it over his head, then takes a pair of gloves out of his pocket.
“Well,” he announces with a wry grin, “this is gonna suck.”
“I can come and help you push.”
“No, I need you to steer and work the pedals.”
After he hops out, I climb into the driver’s seat and buckle up, then feel a bit stupid for doing so. But better safe than sorry, right? When I open the window so I can hear his instructions, a gust of bitterly cold air slaps me in the face.
“All right,” I hear Logan’s muffled yell. “On the count of three, hit the gas and I’ll give you a little push. Okay?”
“Okay,” I call out the window.
He begins to count. “One…two…three.”
I slam my boot on the gas. The car shoots forward. A foot, two feet. And then it keeps moving.
“Yes!” I shout. “It’s working.” We’re about halfway up now.
“Keep going!” Logan hollers his encouragement. “We got this, kiddo.”
“Did you just call me kiddo?”
“Yeah, sorry, G got in my head!”
We’re shouting over the wind.
“Oh my God, would it kill you to make any sort of sense ever?”
“Forget it. Just keep your foot on the gas. We got this.”
He’s right. A few more yards and—
Except we don’t got this. I hear a loud curse, and then the car slides backward several feet.
Holy shit, is he still behind me? Alarm tightens my throat. What if I’m running him over?
Before I can blink, the car rolls right back to where we started. Dammit.
Relief pounds into me when Logan’s wind-burnt face appears in the driver’s side window.
“I slipped,” he growls. “Sorry.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” I say, breathing hard. “I wasn’t fast enough with the brakes. I could’ve killed you.”
“Let’s try again.”
“But what if you slip again? I don’t want to run you over. I like you.”
His muscular chest shudders with laughter.
“Besides, I honestly don’t think we can do it. Let’s just call a tow truck,” I advise.
“Fine.”
Logan gets back in the car, sliding into the passenger side. He grabs his phone and checks the screen. “Shit, I’m down to one bar. How about you?”
“Zero bars,” I answer cheerfully.
“One bar for the win.”
Rather than Google the number for a tow truck, he pops open the glove compartment and rummages inside. “I have complimentary road assistance with Mercedes,” he says at my questioning look.
“Fancy.”
“Number should be in here somewhere.”
He finally finds the paperwork. Dials. When someone answers, he provides a policy number and explains the situation. He gives our location, listens for a moment, then rolls his eyes.
“They put me on hold,” he tells me.
And while we’re on hold, the call drops because of the weak signal, so he’s forced to call back and do the whole thing all over again.
“I just called,” he grumbles after being asked a bunch of questions. “Someone was checking for me when the call failed and—” He bites out a curse and glares at me. “They put me on hold.”
I giggle.
This time he survives the hold, but the response we get is not ideal. “In the morning?” he exclaims. “Seriously?”
“We’ll be dead by then,” I hiss.
Logan grins at me. “We won’t be dead by then—no, no, sorry, I was talking to my girlfriend. But that’s way too long. Come on, man. You gotta get someone here sooner. We’re stuck at the bottom of a hill in the middle of a blizzard.” He pauses. “I understand it’s New Year’s Eve, but—” He stops for a beat, then snarls like an irate beast. “They put me on fucking hold.”
