Holiday Risk

by MEGAN MATTHEWS

"What are you doing?" Pete asks.

  I step up onto the crate, the added boost bringing me closer to the door. "I'm busting us out of here."

  With a carefully calculated push, I throw all my weight into it. I'm able to lift the door the highest yet, but I still don't have enough umph to swing it open. I use a few seconds to peek around outside and see if I can determine what they're using on top of the door, but from my angle, I can't make anything out.

  There has to be a way out of the situation. I refuse to go out in this style. If I'm to die young, it has to be from something cool like a bungee-jumping accident or stage diving at a Metallica concert. I hold the door open a few inches until my arms tire and it sags lower and lower.

  Something cold and wet rubs against the edge of my palm, and I rip my hand away and inside, my outstretched arms falling more.

  "What?" Pete stands and comes to look out the opening for himself.

  "Something touched me." I'm so tired of being touched by unidentified things.

  Pete stretches onto his tiptoes. "It's a dog."

  "What?" I heave open the door, widening the space a few more millimeters.

  Sure enough, when I lean closer for a better look, a big black nose greets me. A dog drawing attention to the fact I have the door open is the last thing we need right now.

  It gets worse when the dog barks.

  "Shhhhh," I whisper as loud as possible. Because we all know dogs speak so much English.

  The dog claws at the edges of the opening. Little white dots on one of her big black paws catch my attention. "Frankie?"

  The dog keeps digging but there's no doubt in my mind this is Spencer's dog. Frankie found us.

  "It's Spencer's dog, Frankie." I turn back to Pete and whisper.

  "Who is Spencer?"

  There is no time to explain. I'm pretty sure Lassie never chewed up shoes or ate used condoms, but I don’t have Lassie, I have Frankie. And I've got to do the best I can. "Frankie," I say in a super sweet voice. "Go find Spencer," I coax.

  Amazingly, she stops digging. Pete lifts one eyebrow my direction and gives me half a shrug. I'm tempted to use an, "I told you so," but I'm as surprised as he is that she actually listened.

  Except she didn't.

  The digging picks up on the other side of the door, her claws hitting the metal of the hinges. "Frankie, no."

  My demand does no good. My arms finally give out, and I drop the door, pumping my shoulders to get ready for another push when the digging turns to a scraping—a heavy item being dragged across the cellar door.

  Is it possible the dog who ate a bar of soap has just pulled whatever they're using to block the door away?

  It's silent for a few beats. My heart thumps the only sound I distinguish in the quiet. I count to five, just to be safe, and then push again.

  This time it goes up. Not all the way, but definitely higher than before.

  I turn back to Pete. "Okay, I'm going to get this open and then we have to get out fast." There's no way I can hold it long enough for us to escape, and getting it all the way open is not going to happen quietly.

  Pete shakes his head. "Don't worry about me. Get out and find help."

  "I will not leave you here." I allow the door to drop and then, with a burst of energy, I jump, my hands straight out above me. They make contact with the door, and it swings forward. With one last push, it sweeps past the middle mark, falling the rest of the way open.

  There isn’t time for celebration.

  My arms are weak, but without stopping to take a break, I lunge for the top. With enough ground underneath me, I kick and pull myself to the surface in some form of demented Army crawl, using mostly my elbows.

  "Pete, come on."

  He doesn't budge. "I told you to leave me. I'll only hold you up."

  I lean over and stick both hands back in the hole. "I'm not leaving you, and that's all there is to it. So hurry up."

  His eyes light up, and he shakes his head, yet I swear I hear him mumble something about stubborn women. Eventually, Pete moves faster than I’ve ever seen him. He's older, but also taller, which is helpful. Pete’s hand sticks out above the hole when he steps on the crate and lifts his arms. My hands make contact and I pull his heavy body up as he kicks at the dirt doing his best to help.

  When he makes it to the surface, I roll over, my lungs gasping for each breath as I stare at the tops of the leafless trees. There isn't time to do more than that. We need to be on our way and far from the cabin as soon as possible. I get to my knees, ready to help Pete, when a twig breaks on the forest floor behind me.

  "Put your hands in the air," a deep male voice commands.

  I let out a sigh and drop my head. All that work for nothing.

  There’s a clicking behind me—one I haven’t heard enough to be sure about, but I’ve watched enough TV to consider the possibility it’s a gun. Another twig snaps.

  "Don't shoot!" Pete yells from somewhere sounding far off in the distance. Or maybe I’m losing it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  "Drop your weapon!" The same voice yells, and I slowly realize it's not Pete. "Drop the weapon!"

  I freeze. This is beyond a high-intense situation of delivering a baby or working in the ER. This time, my life is on the line, and I'm not sure which weapon I should drop in order to save it since I’m not carrying one.

  "Damn it, Rodgers. Drop your fucking gun, or I will shoot you." An out-of-breath, no-longer-mysterious voice screams from behind.

  "Spencer?"

  I'm pushed forward, the palms of my hands receiving fresh scrapes from the rocky ground. Big, strong arms wrap around me from behind, pulling me up and twisting me around until we’re chest to chest. I do my best to beat on my attacker’s chest and kick at his shins, doing anything I can to get away.

  "Shhh. It's okay, baby. I've got you." His arms tighten around my shoulders, stopping my onslaught.

  I finally take the time to look up and find myself locked with Spencer’s deep brown eyes. "Spencer?" His name squeaks out, and I break out in tears. "Oh my God. I'm so glad it's you.”

  My feet leave the ground as Spencer holds me against him, breathing heavily. With my eyes closed, I don’t notice until his lips find mine. He crashes his lips against my own. It's hard and urgent. Our teeth clink together, but I don’t care. I push back, worried I’ll never get enough.

  "Thank God you're okay." He sets me back on the ground but doesn't step away, keeping his arms wrapped tightly around mine.

  I don’t complain. I need all the reassurance I can get now that he's here and real and I'm actually safe.

  There's a crash. Wood splinters to one side of us, close to the front porch. Two gun shots ring out, followed by another.

  Not so safe after all.

  Spencer’s hard body throws me to the ground. He covers my back without applying any weight.

  "We need to get you out of here." He gently pulls my arm, only allowing me to squat in front of him.

  "Don't forget Pete." I twist, trying to see behind me to make sure Pete is okay, but my line of sight is blocked by Spencer’s large chest.

  Standing with me he tucks my head in front of his shoulder. "Don't worry, Rodgers has him.”

  “How did you find me?” I ask to fill the quiet as we walk into the woods.

  Spencer’s hand tightens around my shoulder. “Luck. A car bomb went off by the elementary school, blew out most of the windows. No one seriously hurt, but when we started sending people to the bakery, I learned you never made it. Scariest hour of my life, Joslin.” His voice is edged with worry, which makes my face tighten into a smile.

  Working to fix my expression, I apologize. “I’m sorry.” I have no idea why I’m apologizing for being kidnapped. It’s not like I did it on purpose, but it feels like the thing to do. Guilt over being happy he worried about me, I suppose.

  “This land belongs to one of Frankie Zanetti’s long-distance cousins. It was stupid of them to use it as a hide-out, but none of
us suspected you to be stashed away in a hole under the house. Seeing Rodgers aiming a gun at you will haunt me.”

  “I’m sorry.” I apologize again for lack of anything better to say.

  We walk further out into the woods, making a large circle around the cabin. After five minutes of walking while Spencer does most of the work, holding me up, we come to a mess of SUVs. Big black beasts parked haphazardly over the long driveway reaching back to the cabin. There are vehicles in every direction, blocking each other in and the main roadway off.

  Spencer leads us to the back and pops open the hatch of one of the waiting SUVs. "Hop up."

  Snow crunches under my boots for a few steps. He taps twice on the carpeted back of the SUV and when I don’t immediately jump up because my legs are tired and won’t work anyway, Spencer gently lifts my heavy ass into the back.

  “Are you hurt?” he asks, tugging on the zipper to my jacket and lifting my shirt.

  I slap his hand away and pull my shirt back down. It's December in Maine. Is he crazy? "I'm fine."

  He steps back, crossing his arms and giving me a look that says he is not fine with me saying I’m fine.

  “I’m serious. Maybe a bruise or two but nothing major.”

  To our side, the trees light up in red and blue lights. They grow brighter and circles the entire woods. It’s either an elf on LSD or the entire Pelican Bay police force. Behind them come the ambulances. The town only has two, and I’d rather deal with the doped-up elf than anyone behind the wheels of those.

  “Ughhh.” I draw out the intelligible noise.

  “What?” Spencer jumps to attention and tries to lift my shirt again. “Are you hurt?”

  I smack his hand away again. “No, it’s nothing.”

  And by nothing, I mean there’s nothing like watching your ex-boyfriend jump out of an ambulance just in time to meet your new boyfriend. This is not exactly how I’d hoped things would go down today. Even though Thatcher and I broke up mutually—I’m serious, we did. We’re the freak, weird couple that didn’t have hard feelings. That in itself is probably enough of a clue we weren’t meant to be together. But even though we parted on friendly terms, I haven’t exactly sought him out over the last year. A few quick passes here and there at the hospital tops our relationship chart over the last twelve months.

  I’d been holding out hope that, even in the small population of Pelican Bay, my past and my future would never meet. I might have been delusional.

  Thatcher, with his tall frame and blond hair, jumps out of the ambulance and runs through the snow to where I’m still perched on the back of the empty SUV. He’s moving as quickly as he would for any emergency call, but it still seems super fast to me. There isn’t even time to brace for impact.

  At this point, I only hope Thatcher won’t say something to give our past away.

  “What happened to you?” he asks, coming to a stop next to Spencer.

  So far so good.

  “Few scrapes and bruises. Nothing serious. I’m sure there is someone inside who needs you more.” I point toward the cabin to give him extra help to find his way there.

  “She keeps saying she’s fine, but we found her digging her way out of a root cellar.” Spencer steps to the side but doesn’t leave me completely. Instead, he somehow stands closer.

  Thatcher laughs. “Yeah, She always had a problem with admitting when she was hurt or sick.”

  “Yeah?” Spencer asks.

  Using all my brain waves, I will Thatcher to shut up, but just as when we were dating, he misses my silent plea.

  “Remember the time you had walking pneumonia and tried to go to work because you were only on phone duty?”

  “No,” I grind out the word.

  He still doesn’t look up and get the message I’m insinuating. “Remember you tried to sneak out of my apartment, but I’d hid your car keys?”

  “Your apartment?” Spencer leans in closer, wrapping an arm around my shoulder.

  Oh God.

  “Thatcher, have you met Spencer? He works for Ridge’s security firm.”

  Thatcher flicks a piece of his blond hair away from his forehead and takes a full thirty-million seconds to inspect Spencer’s arm over my shoulder. “I see.”

  “Me, too.” Spencer moves closer, his tightening his grip.

  Without warning, Thatcher pitches forward, his hands outstretched to catch his fall. Spencer dives in front of me to block his path. A large, dark brown blob barks while jumping on Thatcher’s leg. She growls, and Thatcher backs up, his hands in the air when he regains his footing.

  Spencer laughs. “She likes people.”

  “Yeah, I can tell.” Thatcher’s head perks up, and his gaze goes behind us.

  “Thatcher! Need a stretcher over here,” comes from somewhere in the distance.

  He picks up the quick med bag he’d dropped upon reaching us. “Duty calls. If you decide you want someone to look you over, let me know, Joslin.”

  “I’ll make sure she’s good,” Spencer responds, but it’s to Thatcher’s back as he walks away.

  My arms cross over one another, and I kick my legs back and forth. “So now you believe me?”

  “No,” Spencer whistles, drawing Frankie’s attention—and half the people standing around the area. “I plan to inspect every part of you tonight to confirm personally.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yup,” he steps back from the SUV and pulls me with him. “In fact, let’s get you home and get started now.”

  As much as I’d like to leave the area, I hesitate. “I’m sure I’m supposed to talk to police. Make a statement.”

  “I’ll let Ridge know where they can find you. This is more important.”

  EPILOGUE

  “There’s ten minutes left on the oven timer, then we can leave.”

  The clock ticks down another minute. Remarkably, Spencer doesn’t appear stressed at all over the fact he’ll be meeting my parents for the first time when my green bean casserole comes out of the oven.

  At Christmas dinner.

  With my whole family.

  It’s a situation that requires one be nervous, but since Spencer doesn’t seem fit to care, I’ve worked up enough worry for the both of us.

  “If he tries to intimidate you with his shotgun, don’t worry—it's not normally loaded.”

  “Not normally, huh?” He laughs like this is all fun and games and I’m kidding.

  I’m totally not kidding.

  “Spencer! This is serious.” I can deliver a preterm baby in the hallway of the hospital during a blackout caused by Snowmageddon, but putting my Dad in the same room with someone I like is terrifying.

  Even with my advanced warning, Spencer doesn’t ruffle. Sitting on the couch less than twenty four hours after rescuing me, his checkered L.L. Bean shirt is perfectly pressed, not a bead of sweat on him. I tried to get out of going today, but apparently, Pete has a big mouth and Pearl’s phone number. If I don’t show up with Spencer, I’ll be disowned. Frankie lies on the couch beside him, her head resting on his knee.

  Both of them are infuriating.

  Spencer promised Frankie all the boots she can chew and an open trash can for the part she played in my rescue. From the trash strewn across my kitchen this morning, she plans to make full use of her new privileges.

  “Joslin, I have combat knowledge, and I’ve been shooting guns since age ten. Your dad and I will get along fine. Come sit down.”

  “There’s only five minutes left on the clock.” There’s no time to sit down, but I make my way to the living room anyway.

  “It’s just enough time to open your present.”

  My ears perk up. “My present? You’ve only known me a month—less than that, really.”

  Sure, I bought him a gift, but he wasn’t supposed to get me anything. My gift is cute, and funny, and cheap. What if Spencer spent real money on something?

  "I see you panicking. Don't panic. It's something little."

  I relea
se my breath and flop down onto the couch. Something little, I can handle.

  "I asked around, and the general consensus said this was acceptable.”

  My nerves flare back up. This is definitely not good. The box he hands over is small—a white ribbon wrapped around all sides and tied into a little bow on the top. There's not much that would fit in such a tiny package, and all of them that come to mind are scary.

  Spencer pushes the little box in my direction a few more times until I'm finally forced to take it.

  "Just open it. It's fine." He gestures with his head to the gift, and I slowly pull on one end of the ribbon. It comes off, and I hurry to pop open the top, concerned if I wait longer, I’ll never do it.

  The item inside twinkles when light from the room catches on the corner.

  "Spencer, it's gorgeous. I love it." The charm slides around the thin, delicate necklace as I pull it from the box. “Will you put it on me?”

  I hand Spencer the necklace and turn around, lifting my hair to make it easier. He clasps it together, and I fidget with the charm to get it evenly placed at the center of my neck. The silver dog charm lays flat against my skin, the metal catching and reflecting the light.

  "You really like it?"

  I lean across the space and the dog separating us to give him a quick kiss. "Absolutely." And I mean it for everything. Having Spencer and Frankie in my space feels right. Like they’ve always been here and always will. Dog hair on the couch, food on the kitchen floor, Spencer’s half-chewed boots next to the bed… In a few short weeks, I’ve grown to love it all.

  He leans back on the couch, a satisfied smile stretched across his face. Like a man who knows he's done well.

  "Okay, now it's your turn."

  He sits up, suddenly alarmed. "You got me something?"

  I roll my eyes. "Of course. It's not as cool as the necklace, though."

  Spencer's gift is well-thought-out and personal. My own hastily bought, funny present now feels lacking. But we’ve come this far.

  "Well, give it to me," he begs, his hands outstretched, making grabbing fingers.

  I stand and reluctantly search the small space under the tree where I left his wrapped gift. “I’m serious. It’s not that awesome.”