"The roads aren't open," Jack said evenly, towel still on his shoulder like a flag of ordinary life. "And she's not a package you retrieve from a shelf."
Peter looked at Jack—at the white T-shirt, the apron stained with honest gravy, the forearm tattoo, the stubble, the loose strand of dark hair—and smiled the polite smile of a man who believed kitchens were for other people and storms were inconveniences scheduled incorrectly. "I appreciate you looking after her. Truly. We'll pay for the meal and the trouble. Hazard rates, if you like."
Mae made a sound like a teakettle about to invent language previously unknown to humankind.
Claire's face burned, not with the pleasant warmth of Jack's jokes but with something closer to shame and anger braided together. "Peter. Stop. Come in before you freeze into a cautionary tale, but stop talking like you've already won an argument I haven't agreed to have."