“I should have stayed at the office,” Marc grumbled, his voice echoing inside the empty car.

It’d been three hours since Kate had shoved him out of the office, and the only thing that had moved on the Boulder Turnpike was his gas needle, inching its way toward empty. He sighed and dug his cell phone out of the center console. No missed calls or texts. No one who would worry or check up on him, stranded out in the worst blizzard to hit the Rocky Mountain Front Range and eastern Colorado in over a decade.

He hadn’t worried when the snow had started falling earlier that morning. Denver knew how to deal with snow, and it never slowed anyone down for long. But this was close to two feet in twice as many hours, with snowdrifts as high as eight feet. According to the radio, CDOT closed the highway between Boulder and Golden because the drifts were nearly twice that. The road crews just couldn’t keep up.

If Kate hadn’t checked in on him, he’d still be at work—stuck there and having dinner from the vending machine. Now here he was, gridlocked on the turnpike somewhere between Denver and Boulder, with hundreds of similarly stranded, disgruntled commuters. Soon his car would run out of gas and he’d be forced to tough out a night in the freezing cold.

His stomach grumbled, and he added “starving” to his growing “Joys of Being Stranded in a Blizzard” list. Attempting to distract himself from his body’s plea for sustenance, he scrolled through his phone contacts. There was Kate’s number, and several numbers for each of the senior partners from the firm. Not that he’d ever called them for any reason beyond work. He also had the numbers for three of his favorite restaurants—since he never had the time nor the inclination to cook meals for one—the number to the gym where he worked out religiously every morning, and . . . his mother’s number. He stared at it blankly, his thumb hovering over the Call button. How many times had he wanted to press it, to try opening that long-closed connection, only to shove the phone back in his pocket? Hadn’t she made it clear enough all those years ago that she was done with him, that he didn’t measure up to her standards?

Swiping his address book closed, yet again, he dropped the phone back into the console and stared out the window. The thick, rhythmic sway of falling snow was hypnotizing. As unimpressed as he was at being trapped on the turnpike, he had to admit the snow was beautiful to watch—peaceful in its silence, tranquil in its insistence that the world stop and take a breath, release its grief, cleanse its soul, and start anew.

Kate was right. His quest for partner, on making something of himself and becoming someone his mother could be proud of, had cost him. Friends, relationships, and most of all, his true dreams, had fallen by the wayside of his single-minded drive for professional success. But he was almost there. Just a little longer and then he’d have the time to get serious about finding someone to share his life with.

Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Roberts.

A shiver charged up his spine, scattering his thoughts.

“Damn snow,” he muttered, because blaming his sour mood on the weather was easier than looking any deeper for the real source.

He turned his attention to the line of vehicles ahead in hopes of seeing any kind of sign that traffic would start moving again soon. It looked like something out of a postapocalyptic movie. “Snowmageddon,” Kate had said. Just a long line of frozen vehicles for as far as the limited visibility would let him see, which wasn’t farther than a few hundred feet. A silent and still world, all its inhabitants long gone except for him. A strange sense of loneliness crept into the back of his mind, and he quickly shoved it away.

A knock on his window startled him, heart pounding against his ribs from the jolt. A state trooper stood outside, so bundled up Marc wasn’t sure if it was a man or woman. He rolled the window down, just enough to speak through, while his pulse settled back down. Cold air charged inside the car, slamming against his face and pulling a shiver from him.

“Turnpike’s shut down in both directions.” A man’s voice, muffled by the scarf covering his mouth and nose. A gossamer puff of steam from his breath obscured the rest of his face with a ghostly effect.

“No hope of getting out of here tonight, then?” Marc asked, wishing again he’d ignored Kate and stayed at the office.

“Where’s home?”

“Boulder.”

The trooper shook his head. “Afraid not.” He pointed across the turnpike. “We’re not far from Superior, though, and there’s a hotel just off the turnpike there.”

Marc followed the line of the man’s gloved finger to see a dim yellow halo of lights in the distance. People were heading in that direction—hunched, dark blotches moving slowly against an otherwise solid blanket of dancing white.

Damn it. Barely ten miles from home but it may as well have been a thousand.

“Doesn’t look too far,” Marc said. And he did have a change of clothes and toiletries in his gym bag in the trunk. He could spend the night in comfort and warmth instead of freezing his ass off in the car for who knew how long.

“Maybe a half-hour trek in these conditions.” The trooper may have shrugged his shoulders, but he was so bundled up that Marc couldn’t be sure. “I’d encourage heading over there for the night, if you’re able. It’ll be safer and warmer until the blizzard passes and we can get traffic dug out.”

Marc’s office attire wasn’t all that conducive to trudging through a couple feet of snow, but at least he could bury himself in his work when he got to the hotel.

He glanced at the dashboard. The gas needle slipped down to an eighth of a tank, making the decision for him. He’d need enough fuel to get off the highway when the road crews were finally able to clear the way. Whenever that would be.

Marc nodded. “I think I will do that, thanks.”

“Good call.” The trooper rapped on the roof of Marc’s car a couple of times. “Wait for me to check in with the vehicle ahead of you. I’m trying to send people in groups for safety.”

“Will do,” Marc said and rolled up the window. He grabbed his winter jacket, scarf, and gloves from the backseat, and pulled them on before opening the door. Cold air dug into his skin like a million razor-sharp fingernails. In the seconds it took to walk to the back of the SUV, open the hatch, and grab his duffel bag and his briefcase, his eyelashes and the fine hairs in his nostrils had already frozen. Sitting down in the driver’s seat again, car door still open, he swapped his slick-soled dress shoes for running shoes, slung his things over his shoulder, and then joined his assigned companions for the trek across the frozen tundra.

A little over an hour later, after securing one of the last rooms at the hotel and a much-needed, very long, and very hot shower to thaw his frozen body, Marc sat in the crowded hotel lounge for a late dinner. His table was at the back, but tinted glass walls let him watch as more disgruntled, snow-covered people stumbled into the hotel looking for warmth and shelter for the night. The soles of wet shoes squeaked on the polished marble floor as people crossed the lobby to the reservations desk, and white flakes drifted from heavy jackets and knit hats, leaving small puddles in their wakes. The place was a mess.

Marc reached for his hot brandy, but paused with the glass halfway to his lips when a tall man crossing the lobby caught his attention. He didn’t look much different from the rest of the popsicle people at first glance, but something about the way he stood, the set of his broad shoulders, and those thick muscular legs wrapped in worn denim made Marc sit up a little straighter. The loneliness he’d been feeling earlier perked up too.

“If there is a god . . .” His whispered prayer trailed off when the man glanced toward the lounge and bright-blue eyes skimmed past him.

The man stepped up to the desk and reach into his pocket. His mouth lifted into a smile Marc wished he could see straight on instead of in profile. The man’s hand stalled, shoulders dropped infinitesimally, and his stance shifted from one of confidence to one of defeat. If Marc were in the courtroom, that change in an opponent’s body language would have been his cue to go in for the kill and win the case. But right now, it told Marc what he already knew. No rooms left at the inn, son.