Page 57 of Snowbound
Not the overprotective older-brother thing. Not just fury or frustration.
Something that made my skin prickle and my stomach flip.
Was it just my imagination, or was he… did he…? He was looking at me like he didn’t know whether to drag me into another lecture or against the wall.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“I know.”
A pause. Then, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, he muttered, “Cookies smell good.”
I blinked. “You want one?”
His eyes didn’t leave mine. “Yeah.”
I handed him a crooked star. My fingers brushed his. They were warm, rough, and I wanted to memorize how it made me feel when our hands touched. He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t move.
He bit into it slowly. His jaw flexed, still watching me.
“Now that’s breakfast,” he said, and there was the smallest smirk at the corner of his mouth. He snatched a half dozen more in his big hands and turned away.
I rolled my eyes. “They were for later.”
But my heart was slamming in my chest.
Because for the first time… I wasn’t sure this crush was one-sided.
Not at all.
The cookies are simple ones.Did he make sure I had the ingredients so I could recreate them? Or was it just acoincidence?
Why do I get the feelingnothing’sjust a coincidence with him? I find the ingredients, tiptoeing like a thief, mixing by the dim light over the sink.
While they bake, I write.
It’s a short story, just two pages. About a hunter who falls in love with a girl made of snow. He builds her a cabin, then warms her with stolen fire. She melts in his hands and asks, "Will you mournme?" And he says, "No. I'll make you again. As many times as it takes."
I sign it:For Owen. Who never lets go.
That’s two presents. I hope he doesn’t think they’re lame. I think hard on what else to give him before it strikes me: a coupon book.
Folding old paper scraps, index cards, and the back of a receipt, I draw little hearts in thecorners, doodle mistletoe, and write in my half-loopy cursive:
There are more.
Some sweet. Some filthy. By the time he stirs, the cookies are cooling, and the snow has stopped. Outside the window, it’s inky black, and I imagine I see the silhouette of Santa’s midnight run.
Owen blinks, groggy, half smiling when he sees me by the fireplace, wrapped in his hoodie.
“Hey, Santa,” I whisper. “You have to get up. It’s almost midnight.”
He stretches, then stands and pads over barefoot, still sleepy, sexy as fuck.
“What’s all this?” he murmurs against my neck. He smells the cookies.
“Ooh. Thatreminds me…”
