Page 19 of Love Under Snowfall

Frankie.

Francesca . . . Miller.

Unbelievable.

How could he have missed that, not put it together? Sure, Miller is a common enough surname, and he had no idea she was going back to school. Really, he had no way of knowing. But now that he thought about it, the clues were there. In her thirties, that honey-colored hair, and amber eyes. She looked so much like her older brother now that he knew, and with that sharp little tongue to boot. He felt dense for not catching it. And then he felt a little queasy for lusting over the female version of Johnny. Or was that guilt from fantasizing about doing unspeakable things to his best friend’s little sister?

Oh my god.

“You still there?” his friend called through the speaker.

“Yeah.” He coughed to clear his throat and lowered his voice to the appropriate octave. “Yes, sorry, traffic distracted me for a minute.”

“That’s right, you’re in your car. Shit. I’ll let you go then so you can drive safely.”

“Good plan.” He needed the next hour and a half to work out the chaos in his mind. Or the next decade. “We can catch up in a few weeks.”

“I plan on grilling you about how the practice has been going. I bet you’ve already made partner at your fancy-pants law firm. But don’t tell me; I’ve got another bet going with Lucy.”

“Yeah.” Benjamin barely registered his friend’s warm chuckle. “See you in a few.”

“Bye.”

The call disconnected, and a familiar ’90s riff replaced the brief silence in the car. “Poison” by Bell Biv DeVoe thrummed through the speakers.

Francesca Miller—Frankie—had been stuck, rattling around inside his mind, consuming his thoughts and focus. For weeks his efforts had been focused on how to eject her from his class, never realizing her connection to one of the most important people in his life.

She was Johnny’s family. Great. Not only did Benjamin have to stress over the cliché of being a professor who wants to nail his student, but he could also add a hefty scoop of guilt for lusting over his best friend’s little sister.

He had to play this carefully or all manner of hell would rain down on him and the consequences would be catastrophic.

Losing out on tenure.

Continuing to be under the thumb of Dean McCaffery.

Straining the relationship between him and Johnny; his only true family.

He needed to censor his treatment of Miss Miller if he had any hope of maintaining his professional trajectory and personal relationships.

Easy enough.

What would prove trickier would be curtailing the lustful musings that slithered through his mind at an alarming rate. Miss Miller’s image haunted his thoughts, and he struggled to dispel the curve of her body and that seductive lavender scent from his daydreams. And while he was determined to muscle through the next few weeks of class, their close proximity would extend through the wedding festivities.

Maintaining professionalism in a classroom was doable, but how would he fare off-campus with the alcohol, dancing, and formal wear?

He resolved to focus on the task at hand. Visiting his mother.

Benjamin’s scowl deepened as he flicked on his wipers to sweep away the increasing flurry. He sneered at his GPS. Theestimated arrival time to Tacoma jumped by another half hour. The trip would be a long walk for a short drink of water, but a necessary one nonetheless. He glanced at the two dozen pink roses in the passenger seat. Bailing wasn’t an option, even though his mother wouldn’t be holding him accountable. And by the looks of the gloomy layer of clouds above him, he and the rest of the commuters on Interstate 5 were in for a slippery drive.

Damned snow.

Chapter eleven

Frankie

Later that evening, after too much studying and far more lasagna than any human should eat, Frankie rolled into bed and burritoed herself in for the night. While the apartment felt eerily quiet, the night-before-Thanksgiving-Day ruckus outside her window was in full swing. Hordes of excited students danced around the streets, rejoicing in the freedom of the long holiday weekend and the prospect of their mothers washing their accumulating mountain of laundry.

“Go home,” she grumbled. “Don’t you know it’s”—she snatched up her phone and squinted at the time—“just after ten? What’s happened to me? I used to be young.” Flipping a forearm over her eyes, phone still clutched in her grip, Frankie sank back into her blankets to mourn her abandoned youth. She began to drift, only to be jolted awake by the buzz of a text message. Startled, she flung her cell halfway across the room.

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