The Christmas You Crash (Going Rogue #2)

Chapter 1

one

LEXI

If I have to listen to Bing Crosby guilt-trip me about being home for Christmas one more time, I’m going to chuck my phone out the car window.

“Sorry, Bing, but I’m guessing you never had to choose between spending Christmas with your mom, and her awkward new boyfriend, or your dad, who could list hockey stats for days but probably can’t remember your middle name,” I mutter as I switch from holiday music to my favorite true-crime podcast.

It’s Genevieve, by the way. My middle name.

The episode starts from the beginning, instead of where I left off, but I keep my eyes on the road and my hands on the wheel rather than trying to find my place. My Civic has new tires, and the snow is only beginning to fall, but the last thing I want is to end up stuck in a ditch out in Middle-Of-Nowhere, Minnesota. I’ve got an emergency kit in my trunk—including one of those uncomfortable Mylar blankets—but I have no desire to test it out today.

Plus, with my luck, it would be some backwoods serial killer that comes to my aid. So, as my favorite podcaster always admonishes, I decide to make good choices and keep my hands on the wheel.

Two Harbors, Minnesota, and my family’s cabin are so close, I can practically taste the fresh lake air. I can’t wait to unpack my car and settle in for a week of peace, quiet, and hot tub skinny-dipping. My parents’ cabin hides in a nice private patch of forest. Thick swaths of evergreen and birch trees surround three sides, while a black sand beach butts up against the fourth. It’s not so isolated that I’m worried about being stuck there for weeks if the snow is heavier than forecasted, but it’s private enough that I won’t see anyone unless I actively seek them out.

It’s one of the last remaining assets my parents share, post-divorce. Honestly, I think the only reason my mom hasn’t let my dad buy her out is purely out of spite. Whatever. It works in my favor because neither one will allow the other to claim it over major holidays. That means it’s just sitting there, empty, waiting for me to fill it with winter-scented candles, a crackling fire, and the stack of books tucked carefully into my suitcase.

Neither will ever know I was here.

Plus, keeping my trip a secret means no one gets to use the cabin as leverage. I hate that I’m stuck in the middle of their drama, especially since I’m certain the only reason my dad is trying to guilt-trip me into taking his side is to make my mom pay. Not because he cares and is desperate to spend time with me.

No thanks.

Honestly, it would have been no contest. I would have sided with my mom, if not for her affair. I wasn’t the only one my dad neglected in favor of his career as the head coach of the Minnesota Rogues. He’d never call it neglect, of course. He’d call it doing his job and providing for his family . But it’s hard to make that distinction when you’re sixteen years old and your dad doesn’t show up to the opening night of the school musical you’re starring in (or the three shows after that) because he’s in some other state, parenting a bunch of grown-ass men. Sorry. Coaching a bunch of grown-ass men.

Neither of my parents is innocent in the demise of their marriage, so I refuse to pick sides. The cabin, though? That’s neutral ground. That’s a quiet refuge where I can hide away.

Will it be a little lonely to spend Christmas alone in the woods? Sure. But it means I won’t have to suffer through Jeff—my mom’s affair partner turned boyfriend—calling me kiddo and trying to weasel his way into a parental role he’ll never have. It also means I won’t have to don that too-familiar mask I only put on when my dad cancels our plans because some guy on his team needs him.

Case in point: we were supposed to get dinner last week. It was the first time in months he’d made any attempt to see me. I even felt hopeful he’d show up as I sat at my favorite restaurant, waiting. And when it was half an hour past the time we’d set, I still managed to look at the server with her pitying smile and tell her that, surely, he was just running late.

It wasn’t until I was at home in my pajamas, nursing a bottle of rosé while watching an old episode of Dateline that he called to apologize. Well, sort of apologize. He never actually said sorry , just told me why he didn’t show up. Apparently, one of his asshole players dropped his gloves in a brawl on the ice and ended up with a nasty gash through his palm. My dad told me it was his duty to make sure his player was going to be okay.

Must be nice for that guy. Dad was coaching practice when I broke my wrist in sixth grade. He didn’t make it to the hospital.

It’s fine. I’m over all of that. I’m a grown woman, and I’m used to being disappointed by my father. Which is why I’m not giving him the chance this time.

The soft crunch of gravel under my tires pulls me from my thoughts, and my face splits in a wide smile. Breaking through the tall pines and snow-dusted skeletons of dormant oaks and maples, the cabin’s green metal roof and log peaks offer a welcome distraction. It’s even more peaceful than normal in the growing quiet of the falling snow. A refuge. A sanctuary.

Still, as the podcaster describes the bloody murder scene central to the current episode, I’m thankful I’m arriving at lunchtime while the sun’s still out. Even if swollen gray clouds shroud it in gloom. When the cabin is unoccupied, there’s only one lone porch light to cut through the overwhelming darkness. And even though I’ve never felt unsafe here, I’ve listened to too many murder stories not to be wary of the dark.

Pressing the button on the garage door opener, I pull my car in, glad to have it out of the snow. There’s nothing worse than trying to clean a foot of powder off your car, and it’s coming down now. Big, fluffy flakes intermingle with the smaller flurries.

“Made it just in time,” I say to myself as I unlock the door to the house and let myself in. Memories whisper their tales around me while I wander through the mudroom and into the kitchen. Ghostly images play across my mind’s eye. Weekends with my parents when I was small, before my dad became head coach. My mom and dad kissing beneath the can lights that illuminate the kitchen as she made grilled cheese after a long day of swimming. Sleepovers with friends and secrets whispered to a chorus of girlish giggles. My mom shouting through the phone at my dad after he’d called to say he wouldn’t make it. Again.

Shaking my head, I unload my car. It’s a long process. There are two suitcases filled with oversized sweatshirts, leggings, and other cozy things. One has a stack of six paperbacks and my e-reader. Then there are the bags of groceries, the bottles of wine, and the extra blankets I couldn’t bear to be snowed in without.

After I put everything in its place and crank the heat, I grab an apple, turn up the hot tub, then flop onto the oversized L- shaped red microfiber sectional while I wait for the water to heat. My eyes trace the familiar space.

Despite the log cabin exterior, the inside is more lodge-like. The main living area has high, vaulted ceilings with exposed beams that run width-wise across the room. The long, red sectional I’m lounging on faces a floor-to-ceiling brick fireplace I can’t wait to use. A seventy-inch TV is mounted above it. The walls are a warm off-white—drywall, not logs—and the floorboards are wide pine planks that don’t quite shine the way they used to. Use has worn down the hardwood to a dull gleam that speaks of parties and barbecues and summers spent running from the house to the black sand beach at the edge of the backyard.

Faded Oriental rugs keep the hardwoods from feeling too cold in the winter months. The open-plan kitchen and dining room overlook the back porch, and I smile softly as fat snowflakes fall just outside the wall of windows above the countertops and the French doors leading to the porch.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out with a deep sigh.

Dad

Sure you don’t want to come over for Christmas dinner?

Halfway through typing Gee, I can tell you really want me there. I catch myself and delete the snarky message. I’ve long since stopped trying to make my dad acknowledge the way his absence and lack of interest affect me. There’s no point in starting back up. Instead, I type a simple, two-word response before leaving my phone on the couch and getting everything ready for a nice, long, naked soak in the hot tub.

Me

I’m sure.

I don’t need to spend Christmas with my dad. I don’t want to hear about hockey, his players, or his team’s record so far this season. No part of me could handle watching his eyes light up with fatherly pride as he brags about his players’ accomplishments or narrow with concern about players who are struggling.

No, I’m a big girl now. All I need is an empty house, half a dozen good books, and enough snacks to make me gain a few pounds before I go back to my normal life and my grueling master’s program. No dad, no hockey, no complications.

It’s going to be the best Christmas ever.