Page 36 of Snowbound

“Do you wanna watch a movie?” I asked, trying to play it cool but feeling awkward as hell. I felt like I was begging for his attention without actually saying it.

“Nah, can’t,” he said casually. “I gotta go out. Sorry, kid.”

Kid.

God, that word grated. Was that really how he saw me? Just a kid?

“Where are you going?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Got a date.”

My cheeks went up in flames. I looked away so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. I didn’t want to imagine him out with someone else, kissing someone else. And I especially didn’t want to imagine him doing it while I sat here crushing on him.

“Okay,” I mumbled. “Have fun.”

But something cracked open inside me after that. Like… if he was out there, doing whatever he wanted, then why was I always the good one? Why was I the one who had to behave?

Maybe tonight, I wanted to be reckless. A little rash. A little unhinged.

So I waited. I waited until he left in that stupid shiny sports car he loved so much. My mom had taken her husband’s car, so her sleek little sedan sat unused in the driveway.

I didn’t even have my license yet. Barely knew how to drive. I’d taken a few lessons, enough to feel dangerous. Enough to convince myself I could handle it.

Two hours later, the bumper was dinged, the wheels and hubcaps splattered with thick, ugly mud, and I stood in the driveway shaking—completely numb and completely panicked. It wasn’t supposed to rain like that, and how did people ever drive in it?

What the hell was I supposed to do now? I could try cleaning it up. Hide the damage. Maybe no one would notice…

And then the garage door opened.

Owen stood there, framed in the dim light, and my heart thundered so loud I could barely think. I felt dizzy. Caught. Exposed.

“What the bloody hell, Emma?” he said.

He was still dressed for his date—button-up shirt, the kind with those tiny buttons that pulled slightly across his chest. He knew women liked muscles. He told me once it helped him get laid.

Well, good for him.

I wasn’t exactly a fan of that little revelation. But he worked out constantly. Played football. He was popular, attractive. Girls wanted him for the accent. I wanted him for everything else.

And me? I just stood there. Mud on my shoes. Shame in my throat.

And a crush that wouldn't die.

My mind raced through every story I’d ever heard whispered in school hallways. All the reckless, forbidden things girls had done. All the dumb choices that got you grounded, suspended, or worse. But even those stories felt tame compared to the way he was looking at me now.

I started toward the house.

“Wait just one feckin’ minute,” Owen snarled.

My mouth went dry. I turned slowly, lifted my chin, crossed my arms over my chest—and that’s when his eyes dropped. His gaze flicked to where my arms pressed against my body.

No bra.

And now, with Owen glaring at me like I’d set the world on fire… my cheeks burned hotter than hell.

I’d just gone for a little joyride—he thought that too, probably. But for me, it wasn’t fun anymore. It wasn’t exhilarating. It was mortifying. I needed to get away from him because I didn’t know what he was going to say or how he was going to react. The heat of embarrassment had already curled through my chest like smoke, wrapping itself around my ribs.

What if he was ashamed of me?