Snowflakes in Seattle

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

WYATT

D amn, my house smelled amazing.

I bopped around the kitchen, adding a giant slab of meatloaf to the mountain of mashed potatoes already on my plate. Garlicky green beans came next, surrounding the mound of brown and white like a vibrant green forest. I grabbed a porter out of the fridge.

A Christmas Eve feast for one.

Laden with my heavy plate, I moved right past my small dining table to the couch, where I would be watching Die Hard and Christmas Vacation , in that order. Unarguably the best Christmas movies ever made. I’d fight anyone who said otherwise.

I set my plate down on the ancient coffee table that had come with the house. The whole lot—houseboat, everything in it—had belonged to my grandfather. I’d replaced the bed, of course, and added better tech and a gaming chair. Otherwise, the place had pretty much stayed the same since my childhood.

In my twenties, I’d had grand plans to fix it up. But working in construction meant I wanted to do anything but build when I got home, and when my grandpa died, I lost any motivation I had left. I wasn’t in love with the fully wood-paneled cabin look, but after a while the house faded into the background. The place was good enough. And it was on the lake, which allowed me to hop on a paddleboard or in a kayak without a thought.

I flipped on the news and popped open my beer. The news crews were at the airport, where, apparently, chaos had ensued due to a bunch of grounded planes and canceled flights.

I let the cold, dark beer flow down my throat, then followed it up with a bite of the meatloaf. I moaned aloud. The labor of love on this new recipe had been so worth it.

The woman on the screen was getting loud, gesturing frantically. “I saw Santa and his reindeer. I think our plane hit the sleigh. I swear. There was this green cloud and a huge bump...”

I laughed into my mashed potatoes as the woman went on and on about a magical dust cloud that might be a time-travel portal. She wanted to speak to scientists at the University of Washington about it. I was still chuckling as my phone rang, Anita’s face appearing on the screen.

“Hey. Merry almost Christmas,” I said in greeting. “I haven’t opened my gifts yet, promise.”

“Wyatt, honey, I need a favor.”

“Okay,” I said, my smile fading as I caught her anxious tone. “What’s up?”

“There’s some sort of emergency at the airport, and one of our friends’ kids is stranded there.”

“I just saw that on the news,” I told her.

“This is a huge ask, but she needs a place to stay for the night, or until she can sort out her flight. There’s nothing available anywhere near the city.”

My one-bed, one-bath glorified tiny home wasn’t the best for guests. But the couch was comfy enough, the place fairly clean, the fridge stocked. I should be able to host someone for a night, even on Christmas Eve, weird as that was.

“Yeah, sure. Who is it?” I asked.

“Olive Blake.”

A smile broke on my face. Little Olive Blake? Our parents had been close, but the Blakes had moved to Phoenix twenty or so years ago and I hadn’t seen the kids since. Her brother Benedict had been closer to my age, Olive even younger, but she’d always played with us. She was sweet. Shy. Surprisingly good at video games. Her eyes had haunted me, even then. Wide and deep, like she saw everything. I had taken Olive kayaking on this very lake once, and I recalled her telling me it had been her favorite day ever.

“I remember Olive,” I told Anita.

“So, she can stay?”

“Of course. Not a problem.”

“Good.” Anita’s tone had brightened. “Because she’ll be there in a couple minutes. But promise me something, Wyatt.”

I blinked at yet another change in tone, this time dripping with warning. “What?”

“You will keep your hands, and all your other parts, to yourself while she’s staying with you.”

I scowled. The nerve. “Gross, Anita. Why would you feel the need to say that to me?”

“Because Olive is gorgeous and you’re lonely.”

I rolled my eyes. “You think Laney in accounting is gorgeous.”

“She is!” Anita protested.

“She’s eighty!” I argued back. “And I don’t paw at random women. Jesus.”

This overstepping was the kind of crap you had to put up with when you’d known your stepmother your entire life. She had been my dad’s office manager first, his wife second. My mom had long ago forgiven the affair and now everyone got along. One big happy family. Until Anita accused me of being less than a gentleman.

Still slightly offended, I reiterated my point. “I won’t touch Olive. I promise.”

“Take good care of her, Wyatt. I’m sure her day was so stressful, and now she’s spending Christmas with a stranger instead of with friends in the Maldives.”

“Consider it done. I’ll even let her have my bedroom.”

“That’s my boy. Now, FaceTime us in the morning when you open your gifts.”

Like I’m eight, not thirty-eight. “Fine, Anita.”

I hung up and ran my hands through my hair. How much time did I have to tidy?—

A knock sounded from outside.

Well, that answered that. No time at all.

I shuffled to the door, strangely nervous to see this girl—now woman—from childhood. We’d gotten along fine then; we should get along fine now. My sudden nerves made no sense. After rubbing sweaty palms down my flannel pants, I pulled open the door.

And stared.

She’d grown tall. Her face was all pronounced angles, her brows black slashes above eyes as deep and dark as the lake outside. Long black tresses tumbled all over her red coat. Anita had been right. Olive was gorgeous.

“Holy fuck.”

The words were out before I could stop them. A smile lifted her lips. Pretty pink lips.

“You didn’t used to be this hot,” I said, trying to explain away my outburst.

“You did,” she said with a shrug, and waltzed past me into the house.

I stilled, door open wide, cold air blowing in around me.

Had I heard her correctly?

Slowly, I shut the door and turned to my houseguest, Olive “Holy Fuck” Blake.

“What’s that now?” My gaze brushed down her form, over long legs clad in dark leather. Holy fuck played on repeat in my mind.

“I said that you’ve always been hot.”

I stared into her face. Was she serious? Did people think I was hot? I didn’t see myself as much more than “classically handsome,” and only on good hair days. “Uh…” I tried to form a reply and failed.

She pressed her lips together like she was trying to hide a smile.

I blinked out of my stupor. I couldn’t dwell on the fact that this beautiful woman had said that I was hot. Nope. I’d promised Anita, and I was acting like a total dweeb right now. “Come in,” I said, grabbing her suitcase from her hand and moving toward the kitchen. I could hear her—feel her—following me. “Sorry about your flight. That sucks. I just got dinner ready. Are you hungry?”

“Starving. I haven’t eaten since this morning. Don’t suppose you have any Suja on hand.”

I glanced back at her, my heart stuttering as I met her deep gaze. “I don’t even know what that is.”

“Cold-pressed juice.”

I groaned. “Are you one of those women who don’t eat food?”

She snorted, and the sound was adorable. “Please. I bet I can eat twice as much as you on any given day. My stomach is just off. I think the stress of the day is catching up to me.”

Her crappy day. Must remember. Must stop staring. I waved her ahead of me into the small galley kitchen. “Fresh out of cold-pressed juice, but we can start with mashed potatoes and go from there. I’ll be right back.”

I nearly sprinted down the hall to deposit her suitcase and check my bedroom for dirty socks. I was relieved to find my bed made and no laundry out of place. I hurriedly flipped the pillows over and smoothed the bedspread. That was as good as it was gonna get on short notice.

Quickly as I could, I rejoined her in the kitchen. Olive was clutching her purse like a life preserver in my floating house as she took in the tiny cooking space. I broke my promise to Anita as I gently gripped her wool-clad elbow. She jumped at my touch, like she hadn’t heard me come back in. “The only bedroom is down the hall, and it’s yours as long as you need it. Bathroom’s next to it. If you end up outside on the dock, you’ve gone too far. Why don’t you ditch the rest of your stuff while I fix you a plate?”

She stared at me a beat too long. When I realized I still had my hand on her elbow, I yanked it back.

Finally, she nodded. “Thanks, Wyatt. I know crashing here on Christmas Eve is a crazy inconvenience. I’m sorry to put you out like this.”

“You’re not,” I assured her. “Not at all. It’s nice to see you, little Olive.”

I realized I meant those words. I'd meant all the words that had spilled from my mouth since she’d walked in. Sure, I’d been looking forward to alone time, but Olive, with her leather pants and knowing eyes, was one hell of a nice surprise.