Page 3 of Snow Bound

“Once again, pot meet kettle.”

“All right, all right. I won’t mention your non-existent love life if you don’t mention mine.”

“Deal.”

“And all kidding aside, I can come up for a few days, keep you company.”

“You’re sweet to offer, but I’m fine on my own. I’ve got plenty of groceries and a library full of books to keep me company. If I get desperate, there are cross-country skis in the basement I was told I could borrow.”

“Jesus. If you get that desperate, just come home,” Lola said, appalled, and Anna laughed. “Listen, I have to get some sleep. I’ve got an early call in the morning. Call me if you need to talk, or change your mind about wanting company.”

“I will. Love you, Lo.”

“Love you, too.”

Anna reached out to disconnect the call, then settled back against the pillow with a sigh.

She hadn’t lied to Lola, not really. She didn’t want to come back to Chicago and spend her vacation at home, and she did love the house. After her tiny apartment, the two-story Victorian felt like a cozy Versailles, and she intended to enjoy every bit of it. Kimberly and Brian could go fuck themselves.

She wiggled her toes under the sheet, enjoying the way the soft cotton moved across her bare skin. She thought briefly about getting up to get the oversized t-shirt she’d packed to wear as a nightgown—there was approximately two feet of snow on the ground outside, and the house wasn’t exactly toasty warm. But she liked sleeping naked, and now that relatives with boundary issues—the kind that might lead them to burst into her room without knocking—were no longer a factor, she was loathe to put something on.

Although another blanket might not be a bad idea.

She slipped out of bed, shivering in the cool air, and walked quickly across the room to the large closet, where she’d spotted a thick quilt on one of the shelves when she’d stowed her suitcase. She was making her way back to the bed with the quilt when the framed photograph on the wall caught her eye.

A middle-aged woman sat on what Anna recognized as the steps on the house’s wide front porch, a grin on her cheerful face. On one side of her sat a young woman with the same giddy smile, the same heart-shaped face. The family resemblance was unmistakable, and by the age difference she assumed they were mother and daughter. Their arms were wrapped around each other, joy lighting their faces.

Anna lifted a hand to rub at the familiar ache under her heart, and in self-preservation focused her attention on the photograph’s other occupant. And felt her heart hitch for an entirely different reason.

“Well, hello, hottie,” she drawled.

The man sat on the other side of the older woman, his arm wrapped around her shoulders as he, too, leaned into her just a little bit. The same gorgeous chestnut hair covered his head, curling at the longer-than-respectable ends, and he sported a thick beard a shade or two darker. His face was turned toward his companions, robbing her of a full view, but what she could see was impressive.

He was dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans, the shirt stretched across a broad chest and shoulders, and the sleeves, rolled to the elbows, showed thick forearms dusted with dark hair. There was something vaguely familiar in the angle of his head, the set of his shoulders, and she narrowed her eyes, trying to discern what it was that was tickling her memory. But she couldn’t see his face, and after a moment she gave up.

She tapped a fingernail on the glass, amused at the little curl of heat that bloomed in her belly. “What does it say about me,” she asked his image, “that just looking at you turns me on more than all the men I’ve dated in the last year?”

She shook her head and tapped the glass again. “Nothing good, that’s what,” she decided and turned away.

She laid the quilt over the bed then crawled under it. She bunched and punched and squished the pillow until she was satisfied, then opened her book. After the conversation with her mother, she’d wanted a comfort read, and the romance novel she’d found on the shelf in the living room fit the bill perfectly.

Warm and cozy, she settled down to read.

She woke up hours later, the book open on her chest, with an urgent need for the bathroom. Groggy, she shoved her way clear of the covers and stumbled to the bath. It wasn’t until she was washing her hands that she realized she was horribly thirsty, and nearly ducked her head in the wide vessel of the sink to drink right from the faucet. But there was a case of her mother’s favorite French bottled water in the fridge—ordered at Kimberly’s request—and it would be a shame to waste it.

She padded out of the bathroom and over to the bureau where she’d stored her clothes to dig out her makeshift nightgown, and dropped it over her head as she headed out and down the stairs.

She didn’t bother with the lights, letting the moonlight streaming in through the windows guide her through the living room to the kitchen. Of all the rooms in this house to love—and she loved all of them—the kitchen was by far her favorite. It had been renovated and modernized with gleaming appliances and bright white tile, but it still fit the house.

Built at a time when open concept living spaces weren’t yet the standard, the kitchen sat at the back of the house, accessible only through the wide hallway that connected it to the dining room at the front. Anna imagined it had originally been closed off completely, but the doorway had been widened, the ceilings raised, and the result was an open and airy space that nonetheless retained its boundaries. The floors were the same random width oak that graced the rest of the first floor, warming a room that otherwise might have appeared sterile and cold. The only other color came from the bright accessories peppered throughout—a cobalt bowl on the marble counter filled with glossy green apples, colorful dishes on the open shelves. The massive window over the farmhouse sink did double duty, not only letting in vast amounts of natural light but also bringing the outdoors into the room.

The landscape was white now, but during spring and summer, Anna imagined a riot of color would fill the view.

With the moonlight streaming in the room it practically glowed, and once again she didn’t bother with the light. She pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and drank half of it in one go, then grabbed a second to take back upstairs with her. She finished her water, then padded over to toss the empty bottle in the recycling bin under the sink. Then she simply stood, staring at the view outside. The snow sparkled under the moon, making it look somehow magical. She forgot, living in the city, how gorgeous snow could be, and she stood staring at it, so enthralled she didn’t hear the front door open.

Outside on the wide front porch, Grant Snow dragged the knit cap off his head and carefully toed off his boots. After a full day of travel, all he wanted was a shower and the king-sized bed waiting for him inside.

But he knew if he left puddles on his mother’s precious wood floor, she’d shove a mop in his hands and blister his ears.

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