Chapter 1: Snow (Thursday)

Author's note: AU story takes place after Christopher and Lorelai got married. They stay married—if that's not your cup of tea, this isn't the story for you. Luke and Lorelai did stay friends. I have always personally thought Lorelai and Luke's strongest moments came out of their deep friendship, not their romance. But everybody needs someone to love, and maybe that's why I dreamed up a woman I thought could bring out the best in Luke. Ongoing edits for clarity and continuity.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I would appreciate a review if you can spare a minute or two – this is my first-ever story and I want to improve.

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The snow had been coming down thick and fast for the past hour, and Jen was regretting both her fondness for back roads and the recklessness that got her in this situation in the first place. She flexed her stiff, frozen fingers and had started to internally scold herself—again—when she suddenly, the road straightened and she found herself in a New England postcard town. She had never been so grateful to see civilization as she rode past a number of stately old Colonial homes before circling slowly around a quaint little town square. There was a green space, white with fesh snow, with a gazebo in the center. No hotel, she thought to herself. Rotten luck.

Still, there was nothing for it—she had to get warmed up. Jen angled her motorcycle to the curb in front of a hardware store. It looked like a good enough place to ask for directions. As she killed the motor and twisted the front wheel to park, Jen heard the muffled jingle of the door opening. She kicked the stand down as a man hurried past her, his hood up against the weather. She pulled her helmet off before she opened the door and the bell jingled again, clearer now, and a blessedly warm curtain of air enveloped her. Jen looked around in surprise. It wasn't a hardware store — it was a diner. Even better. I'm starving.

A single patron at a table off to the side looked up as she entered, but the rest of the tables were empty. Jen glanced at her watch — 3:30. She was only there a moment before a man walked in from a back room and barked, "Seat yourself. I'll be with you in a minute." He never looked up from his clipboard before he picked up a stack of papers and disappeared around the corner again.

She chose a seat next to the window. Jen could see the snow already piling gently on the tank of the 1959 Triumph Bonneville and swore under her breath again at her bad luck. She set her helmet down on the chair next to her and took off her riding gloves. She wore a pair of fingerless gloves underneath that she kept on, along with her jacket. Snow. Damn.

A menu hit the table with a flap and Jen jumped in her seat.

"Something to drink?" She hadn't heard him come up to the table, and her eyes lifted to a tall man who towered over her, looking at his order pad with a thunderous look on his face.

"Oh. Coffee. Please," she stammered. The man moved to the counter and quickly poured her a fresh cup, then swung back and set it down in front of her without looking down. She wrapped her cold fingers around it and audibly sighed as the warmth spread into her hands.

The man glanced out the window. "What kind of idiot rides a motorcycle in this weather?" he muttered under his breath as he walked off. Jen followed his movement with her eyes, a bemused expression on her face.

As Jen waited for the man to return, she sipped at the hot coffee — it was delicious — and felt her body thaw a little, even as she gazed out the window at her small bike being slowly buried in snow. Beyond it spread a picture-perfect, old-fashioned town, thick with brick facades and well-kept homes. Movement caught her eye, and she turned her attention to the reflection in the glass of the man behind the counter, muttering to himself and shuffling through a pile of receipts. Aside from being tall, he looked fit and strong … it was hard to tell with the loose jeans and flannel shirt he wore, but his shoulders were broad and his hips narrow. He wore a baseball hat backwards on his head, but it looked like his hair was on the longer side, and dark. He moved athletically and efficiently, and as his reflection approached, she turned toward the inside of the room.

"Did you want anything to eat?" he asked, in a slightly calmer voice. Jen noticed his eyes flicker to the helmet on the seat next to her, then briefly to her face. He looked a little embarassed.

Oh. Luke was surprised to see a helmet next to the girl.

"Any chance I could get breakfast this late?" she asked. He nodded, brusquely, his eyes back on the order pad. "Two poached eggs over sautéed spinach." He nodded again and his eyes flickered back to her face—in all the years he'd been running this diner, Luke was sure no one had ever ordered sautéed spinach before. He stepped back behind the counter for the coffee pot and brought it back to refill her mug.

"Can you tell me if there's a hotel nearby?" Jen asked, looking up at him through a thick layer of bangs. I hope. There was already a layer of snow on the motorcycle.

He regarded her evenly. Pretty face, he thought. Most of her hair was pulled back in a wet and bedraggled ponytail, and a heavy mass of bangs all but covered her eyes. He thought she looked a little forlorn. "The Dragonfly Inn. Not far," he replied, "at the top of Third Street." He gestured faintly west. Where was she going? She didn't have heavy riding gear on … her jeans were soaked through. She was probably caught in the storm. It was early for snow, and the storm had rolled in without warning—even the weatherman was caught by surprise. She must be freezing.

"Thanks," she replied wearily, and the corners of her mouth shifted upward slightly in an absent smile. She shivered a little in her wet clothes, then clutched her mug again and resumed her gaze outside as the man walked into the kitchen. In the reflection of the glass she watched the other diner get up, she heard the bell ring as the door closed behind him, and her eyes followed him as he hurried across the street and out of sight. The town was empty.

A few minutes later, Luke set a plate down in front of the girl. "I … uh … I made some Hollandaise sauce for you. It's there on the side … if you want it. If you don't, no big deal." She declined the coffee refill he offered.

Jen picked up her fork. As she ate mechanically, she returned her attention to the falling snow. What now, Jen?, she asked herself, over and over. She occasionally glanced at the reflection of the man who had returned to the papers on the counter. Handsome, but grumpy.

Luke shuffled through his receipts. He briefly wondered what this girl — woman, he corrected himself — was doing out in this weather. She was turned away from him, but he thought she had delicate features, high cheekbones and big brown eyes. At the moment, she looked more than a little worried, and maybe a little sad. Was she out there alone? He glanced at her hands … jewelry, the tell-tale sign … but her fingerless gloves covered her knuckles.

It was still snowing. Jen desperately wanted to stay in that warm haven, but she had to find somewhere to stay before her situation got even worse. Work the problem, she told herself. She drained her coffee, then resolutely turned over the bill and dropped some cash on the table. When she stood up, the man looked up from a stack of papers on the counter and watched her pull on her riding gloves. She snatched up her helmet, threw him a quick "thanks," and walked out the door. The bell tinkled, muffled again as she put her helmet on. She brushed the snow from the seat before she threw a leg over the motorcycle, kicked it to life, twisted the grip and let out the clutch. As she rolled off, Jen could see the man leaning over her table and watching her out the window.

An hour later, Luke was still thinking about the woman … he was curious about why she had been out in the snow in the first place, and if anything, the storm had worsened. She didn't try to ride in this, did she? She wasn't prepared.

He dialed the phone and pulled the cord as long as he could around the corner, away from the customers that had started to trickle in for dinner. "Michel."

"Oh, hello Luke," Michel droned in a thick French accent, "What do you want? Lorelai is not here."

"Michel — did a girl on a motorcycle check in today?" The conversation went — predictably — badly, but ended with no. The girl had not checked in. He hung up the phone with a crash. It was getting dark, and he didn't like the idea of her — anyone really — being on the roads in weather like this.

Luke made it through dinner in a temper. He was preoccupied, and being preoccupied made Luke surly. Fortunately, only his regulars ventured out in the storm, and just a few of them — and the regulars were used to his moods and rants. What is wrong with me? The girl — woman, he reminded himself again—had seemed so melancholy. And she had asked about hotels, after all …. and was she alone? What's it to you, Danes? He could call the Dragonfly again but the idea of repeating that conversation with Michel made him kick the oven.

The last table lingered until just after 9:00. Luke shut down quickly and locked the door, and was in his truck and had it started before he knew what he was doing. He thought he would just run up to the Dragonfly and ask the night manager if the girl had checked in. Or better yet, sneak a peek at the register. You don't even know her name. He shook his head and pulled into the road.