Monday morning, as the recently-arrived snowplows ply their trade outside, Garrett makes scrambled egg sandwiches with extra cheese and wraps them up in foil for the road.

“I’m driving, I assume?” I hitch my purse over my shoulder and spin my keys on one finger, pretending not to be freaked out by the thought of leaving our hideaway in the woods.

The past two days have been pure magic, but magic is ephemeral, especially in Harry. I can already hear the ghosts whispering in my ear again, reminding me that love is never easy and good times never last.

“Or I can drive.” Garrett rolls on his coat with a sensuous shrug of his shoulders. “Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

I hum softly. “Well, considering I’ve never seen you operate a motor vehicle, Mr. I Have a Driver and a Limo, and the roads around here are more familiar to me, I think I should drive. It would be a shame if you slid off a cliff and died before your hotel can fail.”

He smiles. “I’m perfectly capable of operating a motor vehicle. And the hotel isn’t going to fail.”

I grunt. “That’s what the last guy who tried to bring something good to Harry said. I think his turkey call factory lasted six months before he had to pull up stakes and relocate to a town where people were actually interested in showing up for work instead of getting high as a full-time gig.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he says mysteriously, taking a bite of his sandwich as we step out into the cool morning, where a winter sunrise has transformed the world into a glittering wonderland.

“It’s not Christmas anymore. No carols until next year.”

“It’s not a carol; it’s a statement on your pessimism,” he says as he chews, somehow managing to make talking with his mouth full sexy.

“You would be pessimistic, too, if you grew up here.” I glare suspiciously at the crystalline majesty surrounding me, knowing better than to take it at face value. Underneath the snow, the reality is as shitty as it ever was, something that will prove true as soon as we get down to Harry and Garrett gets a tour from someone who knows where the ugly things like to hide.

“Probably,” Garrett agrees. “But I believe people can change. I have to believe it, or there’s no hope for a fool like me.”

I pause beside the car, watching him walk around to the passenger’s side with my heart in my throat. He reaches his destination and turns to face me, holding my gaze across the roof he nobly dug out from under a mountain of snow early this morning.

“You’re not a fool,” I say, pulse throbbing in my throat with that mixture of hope and terror I knew would be waiting for me as soon as Garrett and I finally made it out of bed. “But I still can’t promise more than one day at a time.”

He nods. “That’s all I’m asking. Give me this day, and let me do the best I can with it. And maybe by tomorrow, you’ll be up for two days at a time.”

I wrinkle my nose, and he laughs.

“We’ll see,” I say, forcing a smile as I slip into the driver’s seat and start the engine, not having the heart to tell him that I’m not kidding, or that I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for the kind of commitment he wants.

Normal people might be good with second or even third chances, but growing up the way I did, distrust becomes a way of life. My upbringing taught me not to believe a word out of my mother’s mouth and to look for the ulterior motive in every act of love or generosity that came my way. I stepped outside my protective cone of distrust once—with Garrett—and it almost killed me. I don’t know if my sense of self-preservation will allow me to take a leap like that again.

Some things are just instinctual, like struggling to surface when you’re underwater. Even if you made the conscious decision to drown yourself, you’ll still end up fighting for your life before it’s all said and done.

As we start down the mountain, Garrett unwraps my sandwich for me, tucking the edges of the foil around the bottom to keep it tidy before placing it in my hand.

“Eat something,” he says. “And stop worrying.”

“I’m not worrying,” I lie as I take a bite of the absolute best breakfast I’ve had in years.

Damn, the man can make one hell of an egg sandwich. It’s almost worth drowning for, or at least stepping into the water and trying to stay under, no matter how my instincts will me to fight it.