I made the ultimate East Coast rookie move: I made plans in winter without checking the forecast first.

Moron, I think with a groan as I turn away from the blur-of-white window. I know better. I’ve lived in New York all of my life, and my college stint in Boston had even more winter weather to contend with.

It speaks to how distracted I’ve been that I made plans to go into New York City, a two-hour trek, without checking the weather first.

Remember that bitter wind I mentioned last night? Turns out that icy breeze was the precursor to one hell of a nor’easter.

I turn on the news, thinking that maybe it was a freak storm they didn’t see coming. I turn the TV off again once the plastic-haired meteorologist announces that the “magnitude of the storm is on par with what we’ve been predicting for days.”

With eighteen to twenty-four inches predicted over the next day here in Haven, and nearly that much in the city, there’s exactly zero chance of me making it into Manhattan today.

I pull out my phone, knowing I should send a text message to Stephen. Of all my exes, Stephen Hill was one of the good ones. So I’m confused, and more than a little frustrated. I mean, this lady tells me that I’m going to reunite with my one true love before Christmas. I’ve got only a few more days to do it. And with Stephen leaving tomorrow, not to return to New York until after Christmas . . .

It means it’s not him. Stephen’s not The One. That’s the thing about trusting things outside yourself: if you’re going to trust, you have to trust all the way. You have to trust that things like snowstorms happen for a reason, and that your real destiny lies elsewhere.

But man, I wish the stars and the fates and whatever could be just a little more obvious sometimes. I wish that people with the Sight didn’t just tell you little bits and pieces.

I wish I wasn’t both freaking out about the fact that my ex list is shrinking and yet simultaneously feeling . . . relief?

None of this has gone the way I thought it would. At the start it seemed like a grand adventure—an easy adventure, honestly, since it’s not like I was trying to find the love of my life among random strangers. These are guys that I know. Guys that I’ve loved, at least some of them. I thought I’d come face-to-face with a familiar guy and realize that I couldn’t remember why I’d broken up with him—that I’d want him back, and he’d want me back, and happily ever after and all that.

Instead, the closest I’ve got to thinking maybe was Jack, but our physical chemistry apparently had a major expiration date.

I’ve got two exes and six days to go.

The suspicion that’s been lurking since the very beginning of this is feeling increasingly true—that my ex list is more or less due diligence, to make sure I don’t tempt fate by not exploring all my options. I mean, did I really think I’d reunite with a guy I’d barely thought about since high school? Not so much. And Doug? I think maybe I knew he was a douche all along.

The rest? Meh. And that includes Adam, one of the two remaining guys.

It’s the last one that’s giving me sweaty palms.

Colin.

I’ve mentioned him before, but only briefly, and, okay, a little vaguely. The truth? I avoid talking about him. I avoid thinking about him. Because of all the guys, he was, well . . . I thought he was it for me. Sure, we were in college and perhaps too young in the grand scheme of things, but I’d been blindsided when he’d ended it with a gentle yet brutal “This just isn’t working for me.”

I’d also been hurt—crushed.

Colin is that guy, you know? The one that deep down you worry you never got over? The one you wonder, what if?

And yet it’s because he’s the most likely candidate that I haven’t been trying all that hard to find him.

If I’m wrong with the other guys, no big deal.

If I’m wrong with him? I don’t want to go through that kind of pain all over again.

But that’s not even what’s got me all tied up in knots. What’s confusing the crap out of me is that the closer I get to having to face Colin, the more indifferent I seem to be. And that’s even scarier. Because if it’s not Adam the woman was referring to, and it’s not Colin, it means that Mark was right—she was a fraud.

And it means I’ll be all alone—still.

“Blue Christmas” has always been my least favorite Christmas song. And I’m terrified it’ll be what I’m listening to on Christmas morning.

I pull out my phone and, determined to be brave, I text Stephen again, to at least double-check that he’s really, truly out of the running.

It’s semi-tempting to get straight to the point and ask if there’s any chance he’s still so in love with me that he’d brave a blizzard to see me.

Instead, I settle for a snowflake emoji followed by a sad face. That pretty much sums it up.

I’m making a much-needed pot of coffee when my phone buzzes with his response.

Ha, yeah, I sort of wondered when you said you were planning on coming into town with the storm coming. But then, you always were the optimistic sort. Liked that about you.

See, Mark? Some people like that I’m optimistic.

Stephen sends another message. Raincheck for after the holidays? Or should I say . . . snow check?

I smile. He’s cute. Sure, sounds great.

I set my phone aside, thinking that’s the end of that, but it buzzes yet again. This may be awkward, but are you seeing anyone? I’ve just started dating this girl, and weird as I think it sounds, you guys would totally get along. If you’re game for a forward-thinking double date, let me know.

Well, then. Guess that definitively answers the question of whether he’s The One.

I dig around the pile of papers on my counter until I come up with the list, dragging a fat line through his name. Doug’s, too, obviously.

I tap the pen against my lips as I look at the remaining names.

Truth be told, I haven’t tried that hard to get in touch with either Adam or Colin, but the clock’s ticking. Up until this point, I’ve been lucky enough to either have each guy’s phone number or to be friends with him on Facebook, so getting in touch has been as simple as a text or a Facebook message.

It’s time to up my game.

Adam used to work as a bartender at a couple of bars. Google tells me one closed down a year ago. The other won’t open until eleven, but I write down the phone number.

I also text a sort-of friend who used to date one of Adam’s friends. It’s a long shot, but at this point I’ll do anything to get hold of him.

And to put off getting hold of Colin.

Which makes two guys I’m trying not to think about: Colin Austin, dumper to my heartbroken dumpee of yesteryear, and Mark Blakely, best friend who’s not acting like it.

Yeah, yeah, I’m being kind of a baby, but a good night’s sleep has only served to make me more annoyed about him.

I’m not saying he has to believe that my future is written in the stars, but as my friend, shouldn’t he at least respect that I believe it?

I mean, I don’t really get off on saffron, but I still listen patiently as he explains its versatility. I don’t care about the different kinds of salt, but I still pick up fancy sea salts from Manhattan for him, don’t I?

It’s what friends do—support each other, even if one must gently (gently!) roll one’s eyes while doing so. Heck, maybe it’s his crappy attitude that’s making me cynical about how all this will work out. And believe me, no one’s ever used the term “cynical” to describe me.

The coffeemaker beeps, and I pour myself a cup, adding a liberal splash of my sugar-free peppermint mocha creamer, and then walk to the back door, where Rigby does an impatient need-to-attend-to-business prance.

“All right,” I say, pushing the door open. “But remember that you hate the snow.”

Sure enough, the dog bounds outside, only to come to an instant halt and look around him as though the universe itself has betrayed him.

He gives me a sad look over his shoulder before trudging through the snow, which is already up to his shoulders, to do his business under a tree, where there’s at least partial protection from the storm.

A gust of wind blows snow right at my face, and after a startled squeak, I let out a delighted laugh, as I finally realize what we’re dealing with here.

Snow just a few days before Christmas? This is what holiday vacation dreams are made of!

Even better if it’s cleared up by the twenty-third, in time for the Haven holiday parade.

Did I tell you? I ordered an elf costume online, after verifying with my old English teacher, who’s now parade master, that they would in fact love to have me on the float handing out candy.

And now you’re like, That’s great, Kelly, but how does that fit in with your plan to win over your exes?

Well, let me tell you. In my fantasy, Colin comes into town that very day because he’s been thinking of me. He’s already realized he’s still in love with me, but seeing me adorable in a sassy elf costume seals the deal. He can’t help but propose in front of the entire town. Fortune-teller lady was right, and Mark was oh so wrong.

See? It’s a beautiful fantasy.

I squint to see if Rigby’s coming back my way, but as I sort of expected, the dog does his post-poop moonwalk and then takes off at a sprint toward Mark’s back door.

I tell myself that I linger at my own door only so that I can verify that Rigby’s not left out in the blizzard, not because I want to know if Mark is awake.

He’s awake.

Through the white blur, I see his back door open just a crack, but it closes just as quickly.

Fine, then.

Refusing to let my irritable best friend ruin today like he did yesterday, I go to my iPhone, scrolling through my playlists until I find my Winter Wonderland playlist, which is pretty much every variation you can imagine of “Let It Snow,” “Winter Wonderland,” and “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” I hum along with all three as I make myself an elaborate breakfast of . . . cornflakes.

As I pour the milk, I allow a quick, wistful glance out the window toward Mark’s house. Bet he’s having pancakes. And bacon. Bet he’d put chocolate chips in the pancakes if I ask.

I look away.

Taking my cereal and coffee into the living room, I plop on the couch and turn on the TV to the Hallmark Channel, delighted when it’s one of their Christmas movies I haven’t seen yet.

It’s a particularly cute one, about a former Olympic figure skater who goes back to her small Midwest hometown and gets a job helping to choreograph the town’s “Holiday on Ice” show. She falls in love with the recently widowed father of one of the kids, a guy who’s cute in a shaggy, small-shouldered kind of way. Not really my type, and I’ve never really gotten into figure skating (sooooo much coordination required), but I get all the feels from the movie anyway.

Another movie starts immediately after the last one finishes, and I’m fully intending to indulge when I get a text from my mother.

Heard about storm. Deep freeze to follow, so don’t forget to shovel your doors and your garage entry, or you’ll get snowed in for days.

I wrinkle my nose, because . . . ugh, she’s totally right.

The thing about big storms like this is that they’re super-pretty at first, but if you don’t stay on top of the shoveling, you’ll regret it when two feet of snow becomes a solid block of ice preventing you from opening your door or pulling your car out.

I go to the window. Not too bad yet.

On it, thanks! I text my mom. Then I pour myself more coffee, grab a stack of Chips Ahoy from the pantry, and watch yet another cheesy feel-good Christmas movie. I watch all ninety-four glorious minutes about a Scrooge-esque CEO and the plucky diner waitress he gets snowed in with on the way to a swanky ski trip.

Spoiler alert: They live happily ever after.

When that one’s over, a glance outside tells me my time’s up. If I don’t bundle up and get to work with my shovel ASAP, I’m going to regret it.

I head upstairs to the spare bedroom, where I keep less-often-used clothing like swimsuits, snow gear, and fancy dresses that require Spanx in order to be zipped up.

As far as snow crap goes, mine’s pretty cute. I got it on clearance at the end of last year. The pants are white, with teal stripes down the side, and the matching jacket’s teal, with white fur accents. See? Cute.

Granted, my red gloves and green hat won’t go, but eh . . . nobody’s going to see me anyway.

I waddle into the garage singing “I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm” and rummage around my mismatched stuff until I come up with the snow shovel.

Outside it’s . . . well, not as bad as I thought. I mean it’s cold, duh. But not like yesterday’s cold. And while the snow is unrelenting in its effort to cover every possible surface, the wind seems to have died down a bit, making the shoveling process slightly easier than it could be.

I should do the garage first, but it’s the hardest, and I decide I need a warm-up. This is the first major snow of the year, and it’s been a while since I’ve shoveled.

Truth be told, Mark takes care of it more often than not, and . . .

Nope. Not going there.

In fact, I purposely start with the front door, the one that faces my other neighbors instead of him. The small slight feels good, even if he doesn’t know. Or care.

When the front porch is clear, I march around to the back of the house, delighting in how hard it is to walk now that the snow’s up nearly to my knees.

I’m so busy laughingly kicking snow out in front of me that I don’t realize there’s someone on my back porch until I’m nearly upon him.

Mark turns my way. And I know it’s him, even with a hat pulled low over his forehead, a scarf hiding all but the top of his nose and eyes.

Our eyes lock, and he slowly straightens from where he’s been shoveling my porch. Resting the base of the shovel on the porch, he braces his arm on the handle, and with the other, reaches up to tug down the navy scarf I got him for Christmas a few years back.

“Hi.”

Hi? That’s what I get? Not even a smile to go with it.

My response is the most logical, mature reaction I can think of in that moment. I drop my shovel, bend down, pack myself a tidy snowball . . . and hurl it at my best friend’s face.

I miss his face. Just as well, since that’s a bit harsh. It thwacks against the center of his chest, though, and I sort of love the drama of the moment. I love even more his surprised blink, and I know he’s thinking, What the—

My second snowball does hit his face.

Guess I’m a little mad about the way things have been going lately.

Without another word, he drops his own shovel, but I’ve turned my back and started running before it hits the snow.

And by running I mean I laughably try to shuffle away from Mark, whose high-school-pitcher throwing arm will easily crush me in any snowball fight.

His first snowball hits me squarely between the shoulder blades. Not hard, but hard enough. Guess he’s mad, too.

The second is a lob that he times perfectly to crash gently on top of my head, and I let out a laughing curse as I brush snow out of my face.

I start to turn to call a truce before I get thoroughly pummeled, but suddenly a body collides with mine, sending us both crashing to the ground.

The fall is mostly pillowed by the thick layer of snow, but my breath whooshes out all the same, both from the ground beneath me and from the big body atop mine.

I let out a little laugh and shove at Mark. “Truce, you big bully. I was going to admit defeat—you didn’t have to tackle me.”

He merely grins.

He tries to be cool about it, but Mark’s always loved snow, too. The tense, frustrated Mark of last night is nowhere to be seen, and my heart feels a little lighter at the boyish happiness on my best friend’s face.

“Sorry for the tackle, or sorry for being an ass last night?”

Before he can answer, a tree branch above our head drops an enormous pile of snow directly in my face.

I let out a startled yelp that mingles with Mark’s laugh.

Eyes closed, I try to use my hands to wipe the cold snow away, but the bulk of my gloves (as well as the fact that they themselves are covered in snow) makes the process cumbersome.

“Here,” he says, his face so close I can feel his breath on my frozen features.

A moment later I feel warm fingers on my cheek, and I open my eyes to see he’s pulled off one of his gloves and is using his bare hand to brush the snow away from my face.

His fingers gently glide over my right cheekbone, then my left, lingering just a little.

I want to smile. Or say thank you. Or recapture the playfulness of just a few seconds ago, which is rapidly transitioning into something . . .

Not playful.

His expression is all business as he goes about brushing the ice crystals off my face, but when his palm sweeps over my lower face, I swear he seems to cradle my jaw, just for a second. The way he traces his fingertips over my eyebrows is just as gentle.

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Not once. Not until he lowers his hand, his fingertips brushing over my lips at the very moment his gaze lifts to mine.

It feels like an electric shock.

The touch of his fingers on my lips, the heat of his gaze, the weight of his body pinning mine to the ground . . .

Somehow all of those combined is creating the most intense, unexpectedly carnal moment of my life.

My eyes flutter in confusion. No, that can’t be right. “Carnal” isn’t a word I associate with Mark. Or at least I haven’t before now.

My eyes drop to his mouth. He has such a full bottom lip. How’ve I never noticed that before?

Mine’s not that full. Which he now knows, because he’s touching—

No, not anymore.

Mark slowly moves his hand away from my face and I bite my lip hard to stop from asking him to keep touching me.

He gets into a sitting position, hauling me up beside him. Neither of us says anything for a long, awkward moment. Then he finally looks at me.

“Sorry.”

I study him, trying to read him, but he’s retreating again. This is neither the boyishly happy Mark nor the seductive Mark with the heated gaze that I swear I caught a glimpse of.

“For?” Damn, my voice is breathy.

“For the fight last night,” he says, his eyes holding mine. “And for . . .” He gestures to the snow behind us, where our bodies left indentations.

“Forgiven.”

He studies me the same way I’m studying him, even as he pulls his glove back on. “For both?”

I shrug and pack a ball of snow between my hands. “I mean . . . it kind of sucks. About last night, I mean. This thing with the exes—it’s important for me to see it through, and I guess I always thought what was important to me was also important to you. I thought that was kind of a best-friend rule.”

He exhales and stares straight ahead at the steadily falling snow. “You’re right.”

I cup my ear and lean in. “Hmm?”

He pushes a wet gloved hand against my face. “Shut it. You know you’re right. I’m not going to pretend to get on board with believing this one-true-love-before-Christmas crap, but . . . if you need someone to talk to about this nonsense, I don’t want you going to anyone else.”

I purse my lips. “That’s actually kind of sweet.”

“I have my moments.”

“You do. This”—I gesture at the two of us sitting in the snow—“wasn’t one of them.”

“You used to love snowball fights.”

“I still do, just not when there’s only two people and I have zero chance of winning.”

Mark swipes a gloved hand over his reddening nose. “I don’t know. I’m finding I kind of like it with just the two of us.”

My breath catches, even as I tell myself to get a grip. He doesn’t mean it like that. He just means right here, in this moment . . .

Hell, I have no idea what Mark means.

And that’s odd. We may be different, but we get each other. I’ve always been able to read him, and he me. But I’m not at all sure we’ve been reading each other correctly for the past few days.

“Where’s your scared dog?” I ask to get us to safer territory as I scan the yard.

“Your ninny dog is curled up by the fireplace, wanting nothing to do with the snow.”

“Did you know?” I asked, tipping my head up and letting the snowflakes fall gently on my face. “About the storm?”

“I heard people talking about it at the restaurant, but I didn’t know it was going to be this bad. Thought it was just them hoping to get a day off work.”

“The restaurant closed?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. No point in making the employees trudge in when most of the town won’t bother to go out.”

“Sorry. Guess your Christmas by the Bayou pasta dish will have to wait to make its debut.”

“Guess so,” he says shoving to his feet. “What about you? The snow cancel your plans for going into the city?”

“Thoroughly.”

Mark extends a gloved hand, and I take it with both of mine, letting him haul me to my feet. The bulk of our snow clothes makes us awkward, and I slam into him, my gloved hands still cupping his.

I glance up, and he looks down. “What about your list? The guy who lives in the fancy penthouse?”

I shrug and smile. “Guess my meeting with Stephen wasn’t meant to be.”

Mark nods, but neither of us moves away, and once again I have that strange, forbidden feeling that I want to keep touching him. And not with these damn gloves, but skin to skin, flesh to flesh.

I take a step back, then tilt my head. “How’d you know Stephen lived in a penthouse?”

“You told me.”

I frown. “Not recently I haven’t. Maybe back when he and I were dating, but that’s been years.”

Mark turns away. “I dunno, Kell. Guess that detail just stuck with me. Don’t make it weird.”

I let him off the hook as I follow him back toward the back porch, but now my mind is racing. Come to think of it, Mark always does seem to remember an awful lot about my relationship life. How long I dated each guy, and when. How and why we broke up. And, apparently, where they lived.

He pauses, kicking around in the snow until he comes up with my shovel, which has already become reburied by fresh snow.

“We’ll finish your garage faster together.”

“What about yours?”

“Done. I’ll do it again later tonight.” He retrieves his own shovel from the porch and heads toward my garage door.

“You don’t have to help me,” I say, following him through the now knee-high snow.

“Noted,” he says.

Then he starts shoveling without another word. I do the same, starting at the opposite side, until half an hour and much arm soreness later, we meet in the middle.

And by middle, I mean he did about three-quarters, but let it be stated for the record that he’s much bigger.

“Thanks,” I say, a little out of breath, as we survey our (his) handiwork.

“Anytime.”

“Come inside,” I say, nodding my head toward my back door. “I’ll make us a late lunch to thank you.”

“Better idea,” he counters. “You come to my place, and I’ll make us a late lunch.”

“But—”

“Kelly, I’ve had your cooking. The best thank-you you can give me is not to subject me to it.”

I laugh. “Fair enough. Do you have materials for a hot toddy?”

“Pretty sure I can rummage something up,” he says, lifting his shovel to his shoulder and turning toward his house. “A boozy beverage is probably the only way I’ll get through the awful holiday movie you’re going to make me watch.”

A snowy afternoon. With adult beverages. And Christmas movies. And my dog.

And Mark.

I follow after him, feet frozen, face numb, and heart so full I don’t even know what to do with myself.