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"Come on, guys," Nora pleaded, flashing a peace sign. "I'm positive there's some conversational sweet spot on the Venn diagram here."

Tuck shared a brief glance with Pip, and they both silently agreed to let their differences be like the one sock that always disappears in the laundry—mysterious and unresolved.

"Why don't you two stay put and bookworm to your heart's content. I'll walk back to the B and B and catch some z's. We'll reconvene in the morning for crumpets or whatever counts as breakfast around here."

"Really?" Nora furrowed her brow. "Pip and I can leave too. You do look tired."

"Nah. I'm fine." The lie rolled off easily. He'd been saying it enough.

"I know you'd choose hockey over South Hampshire any day of the week." Nora squeezed his shoulders in a half hug. "But I am excited to play tourist together. You haven't gotten much of a chance to see the world beyond the arena. It's good out here. I promise."

"Sounds like a plan." He playfully yanked one of her braids.

She slid her hand over. It took him a second to realize she was passing him her car keys.

"No." His answer was firm. "I'll walk."

"You'd be doing me a favor," Nora wheedled. "We need to drink a lot more before we start on the Romantic poets, and you've only had a beer and a half."

"At least we agree Percy Bysshe Shelley is the worst," Pip muttered into her glass.

"He took his second wife, Mary's, virginity on her mother's grave," Nora explained, like that cleared up everything. "Then that same Mary went and wrote Frankenstein."

"Huh." Not going to lie—it was kinda cool being related to a walking Wikipedia.

"Anyway, I digress. Take the car." Nora's tone was final. "Later, I'll text you and you can come back and get us."

"Deal." He fisted the keys. "Be good. Don't talk to strangers."

Nora gave him a double thumbs-up. "If anyone offers us a lolly, I'll kick 'em in the shins."

Tucker kept the smile plastered on his face until he walked through the door. Out in the square, he jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, the rhythmic strike of his footfalls echoing against the cobblestones. Night mist hung low, full of woodsmoke and the earthy scent of decaying leaves—a far cry from Zamboni fumes and chlorinated ice. The brick row houses flanking him on all four sides could be from a storybook, except he didn't believe in fairy tales. Only the hard truth scraping against the back of his mind.

He made his way over to Nora's Mini Cooper. It was as boxy as a toaster. He opened the door and frowned down at the passenger seat. Shit. Wrong side. Walking around, he made a mental note: Drive on the left.

Inside, his knees smashed against the steering wheel as he shoved the key in the ignition, and he had to drop his jaw down to his chest to fit. He snorted. This was a glorified go-cart. Reaching for the seat belt, he jumped as his elbow beeped the horn. Scratch that—this was a clown car.

Walking might have been easier. Even with the cold.

Downshifting and releasing the clutch, he eased into the empty laneway. Condensation veiled the windows, obscuring his view. With a reluctant grimace, he opened the window, bracing himself against the bitter gust of December air that rushed in like an uninvited guest. Crossing a stone bridge over a creek on the outskirts of town, he had just reached for the radio dial when a cry drowned out the trickle of water over rocks.

A sheepdog bolted from a farmhouse on the hill, heading straight for the road. Hot on its tail was a boy in flannel pajamas and too-big rubber boots. Tucker's stomach hollowed as he stomped on the brakes. S hit. Black ice. The dog and kid, illuminated by the headlights, froze in front of him, wide-eyed. Tires screeched. This wasn't going to work. He'd strike them. Without a second thought, he violently jerked the wheel to the right, throwing him off the road like a rodeo cowboy on a wild bull. He bucked and bounced, out of control, through the snow toward a frozen pond.