He didn’t lift his eyes from the screen. “I’ll get to it later.”

“You said that two hours ago.” I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel. “It’s getting dangerous out there. And I still need help chopping vegetables for the roast.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. The air in the room went thin. He set his phone on the glass coffee table with a sharp clack.

“I have been working my tail off all week,” he sneered, his voice dropping to that low register that usually came before a storm. “I’m not spending my Friday night doing manual labor, and I’m certainly not chopping vegetables.

That’s your job. I told everyone you were making your famous rib roast. You’re the wife. You cook. You host.”

“I am cooking, Jason. I just need ten minutes of help with the ice before someone gets hurt—”

He stood so fast the heavy coffee table shifted. In three strides he was towering over me, his face flushed with sudden rage.

“Stop nagging me!” he barked, stale bourbon on his breath.

I stepped back, my heart spiking. “Jason, please—”

“If you want the damn porch salted so badly, do it your miserable self!”

He lunged. His hand clamped down on my left shoulder, fingers digging into my collarbone, and before I could process it he shoved me backward toward the heavy oak front door.

I stumbled, hands flailing for balance, hit the handle, and twisted it as my momentum carried me back. The door swung open and I stumbled out into the biting air.