Page 46 of Love Under Snowfall

Lastly, when he held her in his lap, cradling her tightly to his chest. Sure, that last one was a necessity, but the pattern still stood.

The professor inserted himself into her bubble repeatedly.

Why did the idea of him crowding her space in that cozy little bed sound amazing? Curled up all warm and comfortable beside him, smelling his spicy, autumn scent, listening to his heavy breath. That damned kiss was to blame. It had to be.

Frankie had tried to radio Miguel and Jon a few times during their trek, but the whiteout conditions jacked with the transmission. Search and rescue wouldn’t be coming for them until the storm cleared, so Frankie and Benjamin were stranded—together—for the foreseeable future.

Once the meal was ready, Frankie dished up two bowls and deposited them on the table. Neither traveler said a word; they were too busy shoveling boiling hot spoonfuls into their mouths.

Frankie surreptitiously watched Benjamin as he plowed through a second helping of the bland concoction. His face was inches from his bowl, knuckles white from the death grip on his utensil. The steam from the hot food fogged his scratched glasses. Which seemed to have taken a few extra hits in his efforts to join her in the ravine.

“Can I help you?” he murmured, glancing up through his lashes and furrowed brow.

Suddenly transported back to the family law classroom, Frankie had a flash of Professor Clark analyzing her in a familiar way. She stiffened for a moment then remembered he no longer held the power he once had. It was she who’d navigated them to the cabin, started the fire, and fed them.

Shewas the authority in this scenario.

So, why did the way he looked at her make her feel . . . vulnerable?

“What grade did I get?” she blurted.

“Miss Miller,” he rested his spoon in his bowl and raised his chin. “You know I can’t tell you the results of your final exam until they are reported through the proper channels.” Did she spot a twinkle of humor in his eye?

“I was referring to dinner,” she said, batting her eyes and feigning innocence.

“Well, in that case,” he took a thoughtful bite, closing his eyes to focus on the flavors and textures. His thick black brows came together in concentration. Frankie followed the proud line of his aristocratic nose and landed on his full lips just as the tip of his tongue slid along the corner. His jaw muscle flexed beneath a few days’ worth of dark stubble with each chew until, finally, his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Jesus.Frankie was hulled up in the middle of nowhere with an absolute Adonis.

Benjamin opened his ocean eyes and leveled them on hers.

“C-plus,” he declared.

Frankie sputtered. “A C-plus? Really? You’re telling me after the day we’ve had and how hungry you are that this isn’t even worthy of something in the B range?”

“It’s prudent to be objective when grading one’s work. It would be unethical to take into account situational markers that might temporarily sway my opinion.” He regulated his facial expression like a pro, aside from a tiny quirk of his left cheek, flashing a barely noticeable dimple.

“Well then.” Frankie snatched his bowl and scraped the remaining rice and beans into hers then slid the empty dish back. “I won’t subject you to any more of this objectively mediocre slop.”

Benjamin barked out a hearty laugh as he rose from the table and proceeded to dish up another helping from the pot onthe stove. “Just because it’s not worthy of a gourmet restaurant doesn’t mean that I turn my nose up at it. This is hitting the spot after a brutal day. Thank you, Francesca.”

The way he settled his eyes on hers and rumbled her name deep in his throat was so satisfying that Frankie felt three beers deep. She was transfixed, as though she were drowning in the ocean whirlpools of his irises but didn’t have sense enough to try to escape. Frankie was the first to blink, but then Benjamin removed his battered glasses and set them aside.

Cheater.

“You’re welcome,” Frankie offered stiffly.

“Besides, I’ve never been a picky eater,” he mentioned, plowing back into his bowl.

“I bet your mom loved that. I was the same way. I ate anything my mom put in front of me.”

“That’s because your mother has the culinary prowess of Martha Stewart, according to Johnny anyway. I remember one year, she sent him a care package, and he shared some of those lemon triangle things with me.Delicious.”

“Her iced lemon shortbread. They’re even better straight from the oven. What about your mom? Is she a good cook?” Frankie settled back after finishing the last bite and sighed with comfort. Warm room, warm belly—she felt comfortable for the first time all day.

Until she noticed Benjamin’s shoulders stiffen and eyes darken. He didn’t respond right away, and she replayed her last question, scanning it for whatever had caused the atmospheric shift.

“She . . .” He looked hard at Frankie. “She did the best that she could.”

---