Page 43 of Snowbound
“No cell phone, no noise, no cars, no nothing,” she says quietly, like the silence might break if she speaks too loud.
She exhales and closes her eyes again, melting into it. I like it too. I kneel in front of her, balancing a wooden bowl of pasta in one hand, a spoon in the other.
“Hungry?”
Her eyes flutter open. “Yes,” she murmurs, catching sight of what I’m holding. Her eyes brighten when she sees the bowl—cream sauce, fresh spinach, ribboned pasta, still steaming.
“You like that it’s so quiet here?” I ask.
“I do,” she says softly, the words falling like a confession. A pause. “There’s so much noise at home.” She closesher eyes again and breathes out a tired sigh. “Even when no one was there.”
I understand. I know exactly what kind of noise she means.
“I think you’ve got another writing session this afternoon, don’t you?” I say gently. She cracks one eye open, warily. I give her a look.
“Yes,” she admits.
“Good. Then let’s get you fed.” I lift the spoon. “Open.”
She does—slowly, lips parting around the spoon with a hesitation that makes my chest ache. It’s almost shy, almost innocent. Maybe she hasn’t been spoon-fed since she was a baby. Maybe that’s why her reaction feels so tender, so unsure.
I watch her mouth a beat too long. Too closely. My thoughts turn filthy in an instant. Every spoonful I give her is slow and deliberate. I want her to understand what it feels like to be taken care of—then devoured.
“You’re staring,” she whispers.
“I like what I see,” I whisper back. “You know, I like the quiet too, Emma.”
“It suits you,” she replies, almost like she’s surprised to realize it. “You always loved those camping trips we took. You’d disappear into the woods for hours, hiking all alone. Getting up before everyone else did. Just you, a knife, and a stick of wood you’d somehow transform into something beautiful. Do you still do that?”
I shrug. “Haven’t in a while, no. I didn’t know you remembered that.”
I feed her until the bowl is empty, and she leans back in the chair with a little sigh. Her hair’s a mess, soft and loose. She looks content. Real. Vulnerable.
“My hair’s a mess, and I feel a little gross,” she says, making a face.
“Gross?” I laugh. “What do you mean?”
“I rolled out of bed, ate breakfast, stayed in pajamas, and wrote all morning. Then we meet under one… two, let’s see?—”
Her brow furrows as she counts, lips moving. “Four mistletoe spots. Then you fed me a bowl of pasta. Did you eat, Owen?”
“Aye, while you were working.”
She pauses. “I feel like I need to at least shave my legs if we’re gonna do… you know.” Her voice dips as she finishes. “Other things later. Un… blocking things.”
“Maybe you’d like a bath. They’ve got one of those old-fashioned clawfoot tubs in the bathroom.”
She smiles. “It looks cold in there.”
“It’s not. The heat’s on. Vent’s right by the tub. There’s even candles.” I smirk. “Hang on.”
I take the empty bowl to the kitchen, then head to the bathroom. I light a few of those green tapered pine candles, the kind that smell like Christmas and snow and something old. The tub is porcelain and deep, with an ivory base resting on golden lion feet. The water runs hot. Perfect.
Even the sink’s got old brass handles—one for hot, one forcold. And the window? High enough no one can see in, flooded with soft, bright winter light. It’s all perfect.
I glance up at the newest mistletoe I strung above the bathroom door and smirk. She’s mine at every turn.
I walk back to her. “I’m going to undress you.”
