Page 26 of Famous for a Living

Tap.

Tap.

I open my eyes slowly, first one eye, then the other. There’s the mountain, still looming. The precipice is in front of me. I don’t see any road.

Slowly I turn, and there is Zaiah, his breath fogging up the window as he’s squatting down, peering at me.

And there, to my left, is the road.

The blinking emergency lights of his truck cast a red glow on the snow.

Oh dear.

I look to my right and see the headlight of the white convertible pressed against the guardrail, the body and back of the car turned sideways.

I look back at Zaiah’s bearded face in the window and, if I’m not mistaken, see shallowly concealed mirth in his hazel-green eyes.

Wordlessly he pulls open the driver’s side door. A blast of cold air hits me, and he reaches down, his face inches from mine, as he pushes the button for the trunk.

While he pulls out the carry-on and spare suitcase, I shakily step out of the car.

I’m alive.

I’m alive and well.

An absolute idiot, but alive and well.

I raise my chin and do the only thing I can do: walk silently behind him.

Just when I think he’s going to let it go, let me keep what small dignity I have left as I slip and slide my way to his truck in gripless boots, he speaks as he opens the passenger-side door.

“Hey, Cat. Welcome to Montana.” He laughs as he shuts the door.

Welcome to his world.

Chapter 4

The Cabin

“I see what you did there. Cute.” There’s a slight twitch of Zaiah’s beard as he stares ahead, gripping the worn leather of his steering wheel.

The wipers are making mad dashes back and forth across his windshield, eager to sweep off the snow that’s collecting quicker than they can handle. We’re only thirty feet off from my convertible, and yet it’s already just a big white plop of snow blurred into the rest of the scenery in the mirror.

“How long have you been dreaming about throwing out that comeback?” I click off the power button inside my coat pocket. It feels eighty degrees in here, and welcome at that.

“Hmm,” he says, as though trying to recollect. “When was the last time we met?”

“Four months ago.”

Like I’d ever forget that date.

“Four months then.” There he goes again. There’s that little curve of a smile on his lips.

I roll my eyes and settle into the seat, which is as warm as hot bread wrapped inside a tea towel.

The truck is old and unimpressive, but it blasts heat so powerfully through its vents it makes my rental look like a kiddie toy. There is nothing special about it; in fact, quite literally nothing is lit up on his center display. No red glow to say a passenger seat belt is on. Nothing to signal the airbags are engaged. No running display of music or Bluetooth or voice-command options.

For that matter, there’s a high probability the radio doesn’t work at all, given the rusty metal point where the knob was clearly knocked off some time ago.