Page 8 of Snowed in with the Grump

Carter caught me wrestling with the oak monstrosity and barely bought my flimsy excuse about a mouse. He's too perceptive not to be suspicious.

If he finds the stash of letters containing my deepest romantic confessions, it will bring embarrassment and chaos into our decade-long friendship.

Those letters contain my deepest hopes, dreams, and confessions about Carter, things I could never say aloud. Thinking about him reading the endless pages where I gush about him makes me cringe.

At best, those flowery words would bring nothing more than an eye roll. At worst, they could send him running for the hills.

While Carter is occupied, I rummage through my bags for my portable speaker, figuring some upbeat tunes will ease my nervousness.

Soon a peppy version of “Let It Snow” fills the cozy kitchen.

I’m bobbing my head and mouthing the lyrics when Carter enters, surveying the scene with amusement dancing in his eyes.

“We should cook up some dinner to pass the time,” I suggest brightly, hoping he doesn’t notice the slight tremor in my hands.

Carter leans against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest as he regards me with a look I can’t quite decipher. “And what feast does Chef Ava propose?”

I tap my chin thoughtfully before suggesting, “Chili. Perfect comfort food for a stormy night.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Carter watching me sway to the music as I gather ingredients and utensils. Feeling playful, I ham it up, dramatically lip-syncing with a wooden spoon.

When Carter laughs, the sound makes my insides flutter. I boldly ask, “Care to dance, Mr. Grinch?”

Carter's mouth quirks, but he shakes his head, eyes glinting with humor. I’m disappointed he didn't accept my spontaneous offer.

In the cramped kitchen, Carter takes the knife and cutting board next to me and begins chopping vegetables with smooth, practiced motions.

I’m hyperaware of his muscular frame inches from mine. I sneak glances at his forearms, oddly mesmerized as the muscles flex with each efficient chop.

My cheeks grow hot when Carter reaches across me for the wooden spoon, his solid chest grazing my shoulder in the tight space.

I freeze, my pulse racing. Carter notices my reaction but says nothing, simply resumes work.

What am I doing? I need to stop this flirty behavior. Acting on these feelings could ruin my closest friendship.

I’m mentally scolding myself when Carter reaches for another carrot, and his elbow brushes mine, causing the knife to slip from my hand. I fumble to catch it in a panic before it hits the floor.

“Careful,” Carter murmurs, his large hand closing over mine to steady it.

The sudden skin-on-skin contact makes my pulse flutter erratically.

“S-sorry,” I stammer, heat flooding my cheeks. I focus on the cutting board, concentrating hard so I don’t lose a finger.

Carter chuckles, clearly amused by my frazzled state.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let you burn down the place,” he teases. “But maybe leave the knives to me, hazard.”

I make a face at him, trying to match his lighthearted tone even as my traitorous body leans into his nearness.

We work side by side preparing the hearty chili, chopping vegetables, and browning meat while the music fills the pauses.

Once the chili is simmering on the stove, Carter sneaks a taste. “It’s amazing. You're an incredible cook.”

I flush at the compliment. “I learned from the best. Your mom was so patient, teaching Sarah and me as kids.”

Carter's expression turns wistful at the mention of his late mother. Before I can second guess myself, I reach out and lightly touch his forearm in a gesture of comfort. The muscles flex beneath my fingertips.

Carter studies me for a long moment before giving a small, sad smile.

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