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And then I’m falling.

Oh, shit, this is how I die—mid-vandalism and with an unfinished love confession.

My back hits the ground with a muffled thud, the wind knocked straight out of me. There’s a snapping noise that can’t be anything good. Pain registers next. Specifically, my ankle. A sharp, hot pulse that radiates up my leg like a warning flare. For a few seconds, all I can do is lay there like an unfortunate snow angel, blinking up at the stars, Saran Wrap fluttering dramatically beside me like some rejected party streamer.

I try to sit up. Nope. Nope with a capital hell. I try to stand. That’s cute.

I lay there, staring up at the wobbly sign and the bruised sky, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Most girls send flirty selfies or bake banana bread for the guy they like. Me? I risk frostbite and a shattered ankle just to prove to a man who can’t see past his own doubt that he matters. I must be out of my mind.

“Awesome,” I groan, dragging myself through the snow with my phone clutched in one hand and my pride shattered in the other. “Joely, you dumbass. This is why normal people just send flirty texts.”

I crawl halfway to the car before collapsing in a heap against the front tire. The ankle is done. Toast. Just dangling there. Absolutely not vibing with walking.

My fingers are numb as I pull out my phone and dial.

“Power Play,” Beth answers, sounding far too chipper for someone about to receive my call of shame.

“Hi,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Just wanted to let you know I might be… a teensy bit late.”

“You’re never late,” Beth replies. “Especially when Brogan’s working. What’s going on?”

“I’m just… uh—ow—just had a little mishap.”

“You’re hurt.” Her voice sharpens.

“No! I mean… yes. A little. It’s nothing.”

“Where are you?”

“I’ll pay you back for the Saran Wrap,” I mutter. “Just need to crawl to my car, then home to change, and then—can you drive with only one foot? I mean… is that legal?”

“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

I open my mouth to argue but—nah. Can’t argue while half-submerged in a snowbank, dragging a ladder and a broken ankle behind me like a tragic Hallmark heroine.

So I do the only thing I can.

I lay there.

Cold. Wet. Miserable. Waiting for rescue. Again.

After five minutes of waiting, I’m starting to lose feeling in my butt cheeks.

The cold’s seeping through my leggings, and I’ve given up on holding my head high. At this point, dignity is for people who didn’t fall off a ladder while trying to confess their feelings with craft supplies.

Headlights flash through the snow-dimmed haze.

I lift a hand and wave weakly, like I’m in a made-for-TV movie where the heroine’s been abandoned in the Arctic tundra. Onlyit’s not the Arctic. It’s Sorrowville. And my rescuer isn’t a gruff-yet-lovable sled dog trainer. It’s Beth.

Her truck pulls up, and the door slams shut with the kind of purpose only a mother of three boys can muster.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just stares down at me, arms crossed, lips pursed.

I try a smile. “Hey.”

Beth’s eyes narrow. “I knew it.”

“Define ‘it,’” I say, squinting up at her.