Page 3 of A Spell for Midwinter’s Heart

A lingering sense of nauseating failure haunted Rowan as she dashed through SeaTac airport’s holiday crowds to make her connecting flight.

It had been a rush through John Wayne as well, and she was still wearing her rented evening gown.

She’d bunched up her skirt and held it high as she’d sprinted for the gate, like a Gothic heroine fleeing through the moors.

Her first flight had been spent repeatedly composing and deleting a resignation letter, then finally removing her work email app altogether.

She’d tried to distract herself with her current read— A Mistletoe Murder, a cozy mystery set in the Green Mountains—but her thoughts kept going back to the scene of the failure.

Lorena had reassured her that most donations would come in at the end of the night, with more in the coming days via their website, but the rest of the crew had avoided making eye contact as she’d gathered her things.

It would be easier to quit than to face them all in the New Year.

Her path through SeaTac took her down familiar halls dressed in tinsel and colorful balls, past shops selling everything Washington State—smoked salmon and Sub Pop apparel and Aplets brought out whenever he judged her actions as impractical, illogical, or, most likely, both.

She opened her mouth to offer a retort, but the words died on her tongue, and with them, her resistance.

Her chances of getting home that night without his help were slim to none.

It would be worth a few awkward hours in a car if she could make it home and avoid letting yet another person down today.

“What would my part of the rental be?” she asked.

“No need,” he said, waving it off.

“Then I guess we’re going to Elk Ridge together,” she said, feeling vaguely defeated. Gavin replied with a half smile and a brisk nod. As he pulled away from the wall, a sprig of holly came with him.

“Hold on a sec,” said Rowan, getting in close to rise on her tiptoes to reach the holly.

The spines of the dark, waxy leaves clung to his salt-and-pepper locks, and she had to tug to get it free.

Her other hand came to rest against his arm to steady herself, and she was keenly aware of the taut slopes of biceps beneath her palm and the scent of him—oakmoss and amber.

He looked down at her hand with a raised eyebrow, and then his eyes darted down her body, leaving her conscious of the evening gown she was still wearing and all the places it clung tight to her full figure.

“Did you flee a ball before this?” he murmured—playfully? Gavin McCreery knew how to be playful?

“Something like that.” She flushed and took a step back, holding the holly out by way of explanation. “You had a hijacker.”

“Thanks,” he said with a clipped nod before heading toward the exit. The view from behind gave her a chance to appreciate the fit of his tailored jeans, but she shook away the thoughts.

I know it’s been a while, but this is Gavin McCreery you’re checking out. Keep it frosty.

She glanced at the holly leaf in her hand and, without another thought, popped it into her pocket and jogged to catch up.

“So, what kind of car is it?” she asked. “Something with snow tires, I hope?”

He paused, knitting his brow. “Haven’t you heard?”

Something in his tone caused her to stop, a sense of dread creeping its way up her spine. “Heard what?”

“There’s no snow in Elk Ridge yet.”

Her mouth flapped in surprise. “None?”

The tension in his voice was clear as he confirmed, “Not a flake.”

Her heart constricted. No snow in Elk Ridge in late December? That was bad. Very bad.