Winter in Kentbury (Kentbury Tales #6)

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Holden

Three things are painfully clear. One: Jenna Santos still has zero sense of self-preservation—or any sense of direction. She never knew where the hell she was going, and today is just more proof. She said she was halfway to Silver Pines, but she’s barely outside Kentbury.

Classic Jenna.

Lost, unfazed, just coasting along like she’ll magically end up where she needs to be.

Two: Somehow, she’s ended up in charge of her grandmother’s flower shop. Jenna Santos, handling delicate flowers that need constant attention. I don’t know whether to be impressed or to worry for the poor plants in her care.

And three—the kicker—she’s acting like she doesn’t even know me. Like we didn’t spend almost three years close to each other after she moved to Kentbury. Like there’s no history between us at all.

I sigh, watching the snow fall thicker, faster, blurring the world around us. What was with that whole “Mr. Miller” routine? Or did she even call me by name?

I can barely remember—only that her tone was cold, polite, as if we didn’t have history. And with each second that passes, I feel myself growing more irritated. This isn’t how I thought she’d act around me. Not that I should care. Whatever we had back then—if it even counted as something—wasn’t a relationship.

She was too young, and my uncle made damn sure I knew it. He’d drilled into me that getting tangled up with a small-town girl was the last thing I needed. My plan was to get out of Kentbury and make something of myself, and that’s exactly what I did.

No pretty Jenna to distract me, no memories to keep me anchored here, no one to make me second-guess my decisions. And now, here she is—more infuriating than ever—and I’m the one playing her white knight in the middle of a snowstorm. All I want is to get her to Silver Pines, keep things strictly professional, and go back to the quiet life I’ve carved out for myself.

I grab the cables from the back of the truck, securing it to her van while the snow piles up around us. By the time everything’s in place, my hands are frozen stiff. I glance over at the cab—she’s sitting there, arms crossed, looking just as miserable as I feel. With a final tug on the cable, I climb back into the truck, slamming the door to keep the cold out. It’s bitter outside, but it’s nothing compared to the frustration simmering inside.

“We might not make it in this weather,” I tell her, glancing at the snow as it falls even harder. “But I’ll do my best to get you there.” I keep my focus on the road, careful not to let my gaze wander in her direction. But it’s tempting, because somehow, after all these years, she’s even more beautiful than I remembered.

The silence stretches on, thick and uncomfortable. I want to say something, anything, to break it, but I have no idea where to start.

For reasons I can’t explain, I end up saying the first thing that crosses my mind. “How is it that you don’t remember me? I’m Holden Miller, the guy who taught you to drive.”

She gives me a sidelong glance, her face expressionless. “Okay,” she says, like I just pointed out the weather or the latest score from a game she couldn’t care less about. Sports were never her thing.

“But you really don’t seem to remember,” I push, unable to let it drop.

She huffs, looking away. “I learned to drive when I was fifteen. That was almost twenty years ago,” she says, as if she’s moved on from that version of herself completely.

Just like that, the conversation dies, leaving a thick awkwardness between us. Outside, the storm worsens, and with each passing mile, it’s becoming clear that Silver Pines is slipping out of reach.

Snow piles on the windshield faster than the wipers can clear it, and the road ahead is vanishing into a solid blur of white. Continuing would be reckless at best.

My jaw clenches as I consider our options. Up ahead, the turnoff to the vineyard appears, barely visible through the snow. My cabin isn’t far, and it’s stocked with everything we’d need to wait out the worst of this—if the storm doesn’t drag on too long. I hate the idea of letting her down, but this is our only option if we want to make it through safely.

“We have to stop for now,” I mutter, not sure if she can even hear me over the howling wind outside. “I’ll try to get you there when the storm clears.”

“What do you mean, stop?” Her voice sharpens, frustration spilling out. “You said you’d get me to Silver Pines. I should’ve known—you always make promises, but when it comes to following through, you?—”

“I thought you barely remembered me,” I cut in, my voice rough with irritation. But before I can say more, the truck and van slide, tires struggling against the snow-packed road.

I grip the wheel hard, regaining control as best I can. “We’re pulling over. The vineyard’s right here. We’ll wait out the storm at my place—you’ll be comfortable enough.”

“The vineyard?” she repeats, her tone exasperated. “No. We’re halfway to Silver Pines.”

I glance at her, biting back a sigh. “Pretty sure you’re a little turned around in the snow, Jenna.”

She falls silent, arms folded tightly, her eyes fixed straight ahead. I can feel her disappointment even without looking at her, and it gnaws at me. But there’s no other choice. I turn onto the barely visible road leading to my house—the path completely covered by the relentless snow. My hands tense on the steering wheel as I push through the drifts, trying to focus on the road and not the old ache creeping up on me.

The snow’s falling harder now, turning the world beyond the windshield into a wall of white that blots out everything but the immediate stretch of road.

The house fades. The road vanishes. Suddenly, I’m not in Kentbury anymore. My mind drags me back, halfway across the world, to the unending, merciless stretch of the Russian tundra beneath my boots.

I feel the sting of icy air searing my lungs, the brutal cold cutting through even the thick gloves on my hands as I grip my rifle, the metal biting through the fabric. The silence of the night hangs heavy, broken only by the distant snap of frost and the sharp, unforgiving echo of orders. The night I lost two people under my command.

My breaths come quicker, shorter, the air thickening with each inhale, and it’s like the truck’s cab is shrinking, pressing in. The wheel slips under my hand as my vision tunnels, the snow, the cold, everything closing in, just like that night. My heart races, pounding out of rhythm as panic starts to claw its way up, threatening to consume every rational thought.

The truck swerves, sliding just slightly, but it’s enough to send a jolt of terror through me as the tires lose grip on the slick road. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jenna shift beside me, her hand hovering, uncertain if she should reach out. Her presence cuts through the fog of memory, steadying me just enough to pull me back to the present.

“Holden?” Her voice is soft but steady, threading through the storm raging in my mind. “Are you alright?”

There’s so much concern in her tone that it pulls me, loosening the grip of those memories enough for me to force out a strained, “I’m fine.”

Jenna just watches me, calm and unwavering, as if she can see right through every defense I’ve tried to build over the years.

“It’s okay,” she says gently, her words slow, grounding. “If we don’t make it to the venue, that’s alright. Better to be safe than to push through this storm. Whatever you’re dealing with right now . . .just breathe. I’m here. Right here.”

Then, her hand slides over mine, warm and steady. She gives a gentle squeeze, and somehow, that simple touch cuts through the memories. It’s real, solid, and the fog begins to lift. She starts to pull her hand back, but without thinking, I hold on for just a moment longer, letting that warmth push back the cold I’d been drowning in. She doesn’t pull away until I loosen my grip.

“Thanks,” I murmur, embarrassment flooding in as I realize how close I’d come to losing control right in front of her.

She gives a small, reassuring smile. “You’re welcome.” Her voice is soft, sincere. “Does that happen a lot?” She’s already shifted back to her side, giving me space, but her eyes stay on me, calm and understanding.

I swallow, nodding once, the words scraping out. “Often enough to be a real pain in the ass.” I straighten, focusing on the road, grateful there’s no one else out here. I can’t help but think, if there had been, I might’ve run us straight into them.

Jenna doesn’t push for more, and I’m grateful for the silence as I navigate the winding road up to the vineyard. The snow’s coming down thicker now, and the path is barely visible under the deepening layer of white. I drive slower, catching glimpses of her as she looks out the window, lost in thought.

Finally, the house comes into view, and relief hits me like a wave. Still, there’s a knot in my stomach, and I’m not sure if it’s the aftermath of the panic attack or the realization that I’m about to be trapped here with Jenna—the girl I never fully let go of. Either way, I’m praying we can survive the next few hours without driving each other insane.

And truthfully? “Driving each other insane” might not even be the problem. There’s a flicker of something else—something I haven’t let myself feel in years.

Kiss her.

The thought sneaks in, uninvited, and I can’t shake it. My eyes flick to her, catching the curve of her profile lit by the truck’s headlights, and all those old feelings I thought I’d buried start clawing their way to the surface. I swallow hard, forcing my gaze back to the snow-covered path as I pull up to the house.

“It’s not much,” I say, my voice low as I shut off the truck. “But it’ll keep us warm and safe until the storm lets up.” I glance at her, uncertain. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you to the venue, but if the snow slows down, we might be able to try again later today or early tomorrow.”

I climb out, moving to her side to open her door and extend a hand to help her down. The second her fingers meet mine, there’s a warmth, a spark that travels up my arm, all the way to my chest. She slides out of the truck, and together, we make our way carefully to the front door, the snow crunching beneath our feet as we cross the slick path.

Inside, I close the door firmly against the storm and go straight for the fireplace. I busy myself with the wood, stacking logs carefully, focusing on anything to keep me from watching her too closely.

“It’s alright about the flowers,” she says softly, settling onto the couch across from the fire. “The wedding’s not until tomorrow morning. If we can get there, great, but please don’t feel guilty. I’m just going to make some calls.”

I nod, focusing on stacking the logs, my hands busying themselves with the details of kindling and flint. But even as I work, I can feel her eyes on me, steady and unblinking. When the flames finally catch, they cast a warm, flickering light, filling the room and melting away the chill. Outside, the wind howls, snow pelting the windows in furious bursts, making the quiet between us feel strangely intimate.

“If you’re hungry, there’s food in the fridge. I can cook something up,” I say, glancing over at her. “Or I could make coffee if you’d like.”

She shakes her head, a faint smile on her lips. “No, that’s okay. I’m fine for now. Honestly, I’m too nervous to eat. My stomach’s been in knots.” She looks up at me, her smile soft, almost shy. “And I don’t drink coffee, just tea.”

Of course her stomach’s in knots. I don’t blame her. Her van broke down in the middle of a snowstorm, and she’s stuck here with a man who nearly lost control on the road. She’s already lived through more than anyone should. Losing her family in that crash, barely surviving it herself—I should’ve been careful with her, even back then.

And this—sitting here together, me wanting to bridge the years between us—is exactly why getting close to her was a mistake in the first place. She didn’t need someone who might die a thousand miles away or leave her with nothing but promises that couldn’t survive deployment. She needed someone steady. Someone who’d be there for her, who’d stay. Someone who wasn’t built to walk away.

But as she looks up at me now, there’s something in her eyes that pulls me back, stirring up all those feelings I tried so hard to forget. It’s as if no time has passed at all, the emotions raw and insistent, urging me to do something, say something. All I want is to take that worry off her face, to somehow show her that I’m not the same kid who left all those years ago.

But how can I prove it? I don’t even know if I should. I’ve got too much baggage, and she deserves someone who can be there without dragging her down. And yet, standing here with her now, there’s one thing I can’t ignore: more than anything, I want to be that man for her.