Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

December 24, 7:13 pm

JACK

M y studio apartment has never screamed “home sweet home”—and usually, I’m not here enough to care. But tonight? It feels downright bleak. I just got off the phone with my parents, and even though they both tried to sound upbeat, I could hear their disappointment. Not that I blame them. I’m crushed, too.

I promised them I’d keep checking the airport status, and as soon as it opens, I’ll book the first flight home. With any luck, I’ll get a flight out early tomorrow and arrive before our traditional Christmas morning brunch: quiche, cinnamon rolls, and sausage.

My stomach growls, reminding me of how empty I feel inside. I haven’t eaten since the free lunch at noon journal club. I open my fridge, only to see a wilted head of lettuce, a dried-out block of cheddar cheese, and some condiment bottles staring back at me. Luckily, I have a few frozen meals in the freezer, so I grab one, stick it in the microwave, and lean against the counter.

My mind drifts to the cute girl upstairs. Nessa. Cute and funny.

She was smart to get her dinner order in early, before the snow started piling up—no one’s delivering anymore in this weather, that’s for sure. Would it be weird to go up and knock on her door?

Super weird, I tell myself. And intrusive. The last thing a woman wants when she’s home alone is some guy she’s barely spoken to showing up unannounced. Still, I wish I’d gotten to know her sooner, before my life got so…heavy. Before I got so damn tired. My mind conjures an image of us sitting in her apartment, bantering back and forth like we did a few minutes ago.

Maybe after the holidays, when I’m not feeling so beaten down, I’ll find some way to talk to her properly.

I’m reaching for a glass of water when the lights snap off, plunging the place into darkness. I blink, confused. Then I open the fridge—no light. The microwave’s dead, too.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter to no one.

Alone on Christmas Eve, and the power goes out. Could this night get any worse?

Fifteen minutes later, I’m realizing the answer is yes. Yes, it can get worse.

Not only is the power still off, but the cold is creeping in fast. I’d turned the heat down when I thought I’d be leaving, and now, with the wind howling outside, it’s dropped close to freezing already. I put on my coat and hat, then wrap myself in the comforter from my bed—the only blanket I’ve got. I imagine myself slowly freezing through the night, my fingers and toes turning black with frostbite.

Other problems: I don’t have any candles, and my phone battery is down to 42%. If it dies, I’ll lose my only light source, and I’ll have no way of tracking the airport updates.

Nessa probably has candles—the nice, scented kind, I bet. Something warm and inviting, like vanilla or cinnamon. I don’t know why, she just seems like the type who’d keep her place homey and comfortable. I’m sure she has extra blankets, too. And flashlights.

If I have a reason to knock on her door, that makes it less weird, right?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and—still wrapped in my blanket—head out my door and up the stairs, then knock on her door.

I’m shivering, hopping from foot to foot, when I hear a voice, muffled.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Jack from downstairs. The snowman destroyer?” I grimace at the lame joke. “Not trying to bother you, just wondering if your power’s out, too.”

Which, duh, of course it is—the entire building is pitch black.

There’s a long pause. Just as I start to think I should leave, the door opens a few inches, and there she is. Dark, wavy hair spills over her shoulders, faintly shining in the candlelight behind her. Her face is in shadow, but I catch the gleam of her eyes, and for a second, I forget why I even came up here.

“Yes, my power’s out.” She sounds amused—probably because I currently resemble a half-frozen burrito.

Behind her, the room looks impossibly cozy—flickering candles, a couch covered in throw pillows and blankets, takeout containers on the coffee table, a book resting on the sofa arm.

Best of all, a gas fireplace sending a golden glow through the room. It’s the most inviting thing I’ve seen in weeks, and I instinctively lean in, drawn to the warmth. Or maybe to her.

How does one say, Hey, I know we just met, but can I borrow some candles and blankets and maybe even crash here for a bit because my apartment is a frigid, lonely icebox?

“Of course, sorry,” I say, awkwardly shuffling away. “I’ll let you get back to your?—”

“Do you want to come in?” she blurts.

I turn. She’s staring up at me with wide eyes, like she’s surprised herself.

My heart gives an unexpected kick. “I’d love to.”