Page 65 of Snow Bound

“Okay, honey.” Lola’s voice had softened with sympathy. “Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.” Anna paused. “Lola?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for listening.”

“Anytime, babe. Anytime.”

She disconnected the call, then went back to the pie crust, singing along with the music playing on her phone. When she slid the pie into the oven and set the timer, she knelt down to feed Henry, who’d wandered over from his customary spot at the end of the counter, the last bit of dough. “Thanks for keeping me company, handsome,” she told him solemnly, then laughed when he licked her face.

She cleaned the counters and loaded her dishes into the dishwasher, then pulled up her mother’s number. Listening to the rings, she paced into the dining room, then the living room. When it clicked over to voicemail, her mother’s polished voice inviting her to leave a message, she closed her eyes and leaned her forehead on the fireplace mantle. She waited for the beep, then forced some joy into her voice. “Hey, Mom. It’s Anna. I’m just calling to wish the girls a happy birthday again. I was hoping to talk to them, but I guess you’re busy. Give them a hug from me, okay? And tell them I hope they’re having an amazing day, and I’ll send their gifts once I get back to Chicago. Love you. And…that’s it, I guess. Bye.”

She fumbled to disconnect the call, then just stood there, forehead pressed against the rough wood, and tried not to cry.

When she heard footsteps on the stairs she took a hasty step back. She swiped at her cheeks, relieved to find them dry, and worked up a smile for Grant.

“Something smells good,” he said, bending down to give Henry a scrubbing pat. Then he looked up, and his brows drew together.

“I’ve got chicken and dumplings in the crockpot,” she said cheerfully. “And cherry pie for desert.”

“That’s nice,” he said, still frowning. “But why are you wearing an apron?”

She glanced down, then back up. She’d been so focused on her phone call she’d completely forgot. “Oh, shit.”

One eyebrow went up. “Oh, shit. Go put it away, then come back.”

Shit, shit, shit. Eyes down, Anna turned and walked toward the kitchen, feeling his eyes burning into her back the whole way. She hung the apron on its hook by the door—she’d walked right past it, for God’s sake!—then turned to walk back to the living room.

Dismay flooded in when she saw him sitting in the chair by the fireplace, feet braced on the floor.

His eyes were cool, his face impassive. “Over my knee.”

She didn’t like this Grant. She was used to fun, playtime Grant and sweet, aftercare Grant—she barely recognized him like this. Detached and aloof, uncaring, and for the first time in nearly two weeks, she felt truly cold.

Moving carefully, she draped herself over his thighs. She felt none of the anticipation, the excitement she normally felt in this position, her belly instead filled with dread, heavy and nauseating. When his broad palm landed on her bare bottom, she couldn’t control a flinch.

“You’re getting ten,” he said in a voice like granite. “I want you to count them.”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered.

“Tell me why you’re being punished, Anna.”

“Because…” She had to swallow the ball of tears in her throat. His hand was so heavy on her bottom, crushing. “Because I wore my apron out of the kitchen, and that’s against the rules.”

“Very good,” he said and raised his hand. “Count.”

She tried not to brace herself, knowing it would only make it worse. But instinct made her tense, and pain exploded. “One,” she choked out, and the first tear fell.

She hadn’t counted the times he’d hit her bottom over the last several days, but though it had hurt, it had never felt like this. This was a different kind of pain—it reached deep, digging past skin and muscle and bone to the very core of her, and it cracked something open deep inside, some well of hurt and grief, letting it all spill out along with the tears.

At four, tears were streaming down her face. At seven, she was weeping uncontrollably. And by the time she got to ten, she was crying in great, gulping sobs that seemed as though they’d never end.

He turned her with gentle hands, lifting and shifting her to cradle her in his lap. “Shhh, Anna, shhh. It’s all right, you’re all right. It’s over, baby. It’s all over. Shhh.”

She continued to sob, clinging to him with her face buried in his neck. She wanted to tell him she was fine, that she just needed a minute and she’d be just fine. But the tears wouldn’t stop, and after a moment she gave up trying to make them.

Grant held her, stroking her back, her hair, wherever he could reach as guilt and worry twisted his gut. He hadn’t exactly gone easy, but neither had he whaled on her, and the strength of her reaction baffled and frightened him. This torrent of emotion seemed to come out of nowhere, and he had a feeling it wasn’t just because she’d forgotten to take her apron off.

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