Page 48 of Love Under Snowfall

“Woah. First of all,” she began, ticking off each finger, “there’s so much in that box to unpack that I won’t be touching it with a ten-foot pole. Second of all, I’m a damn catch, you snobby elitist. Thirdly, can we calm the fuck down for a minute and reset? I was making ajoke. You’ve heard of those, right? Something silly you say for the fun of it. Fourth—”

“You’re going to run out of fingers soon.” See, he could joke too.

If she heard him, she didn’t let on that she had. “We got carried away—understatement of the century—and the day got to us. All the stress bubbled over and caused us to make out a little. No biggie. Water under the bridge, or whatever.”

Benjamin scrubbed a hand down his face, suddenly feeling very tired. With growing shadows in the tiny cabin, he could barely read Francesca’s face, but he knew he’d hurt her feelings. That was the last thing he wanted, but the idea of marriage was a sore subject, especially with how things turned out for his mother when she divorced his father.

He’d let loose and the moment got away from him. If he’d been paying more attention and practiced a little self-control, it never would have happened.

He also never would have learned how well her curves molded against him, like they were built from the same lump of clay.

He shook his head.

“You’re right. I apologize if I was rude. Let’s move past it.” He held out his hand.Why was he trying to give her a handshake? Whatwasthat?But he held firm, arm remaining extended.

Her scowly smirk announced loudly that she also thought the gesture foolish and slapped her palm against his in a low-five. “It’s been decided.”

“Good,” he replied gruffly, turning to finish his earlier chore. His damp shirt stuck uncomfortably to his belly. He pinched the fabric away from his skin only to have it slap back and cling. Wet clothes were the worst. He considered removing it to dry by the stove then dissolved the notion as quickly as it appeared. He’d hate to add more to the awkwardness he’d already created by playing along with Francesca’s little dance party. The shirt would dry on its own.

“Do you play cribbage?” A warm light illuminated from where Francesca struck a match and ignited a hurricane oil lantern.

“I know how to play.”

But haven’t played since my father left my mother to rot in her own destitution.

“Great,” she chirped. “I play muggins, so you’d better prepare yourself.”

“Francesca,” he began, drying the last dish and replacing the stack in the cabinet. He turned and spotted her glowing, hopeful smile. It had to have been one of the few genuine display of joy that he’d ever seen on her. The reconciliation of that—especially since they’d known each other for months—twisted the guilt dial up to eleven.

“Don’t say no. Please? I need something to do that’ll shut my brain off. Usually, I reread your posted lectures. They’re so boring that they power me down like a robot with an off switch.”

The guilt dial reversed to a solid eight.

“My lectures aren’t meant to be riveting. Their purpose is to inform.” He scowled. “And I’ll have you know—”

“Chill, professor. I’m only teasing.” She removed the playing cards from the pack and shuffled them expertly. “About the lectures, I mean. I’d neverchooseto read them. I meant what I said about needing something to turn my brain off at night.”

“Well, what do you normally do to wind down at the end of a day?”

Benjamin thought he spied a flush creep up her neck and his brain went wild at the implication.

“Fine.” Perhaps he could use a distraction as well. He settled into the chair opposite her and arched a brow as she dealt. “Shouldn’t we cut to see who goes first?”

“I found the game, so I get the privilege.” She winked gamely and all Benjamin could do was shrug. “Ready to get spanked?”

“Oh, Francesca,” he crooned as he picked up his cards and deposited two in her crib. “You’ll soon learn that I’m always the one doing the spanking.”

Chapter twenty-six

Frankie

“Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, fifteen-six, and a triple run of three makes twenty-one.” Benjamin’s silky voice twisted the blade of defeat in Frankie’s chest. “Oh, and nobs makes twenty-two. I believe that’s game, and look . . . I skunked youagain.”

“Best four out of seven.” Frankie swallowed the urge to flip the table and toss the damned board into the fireplace. She hadn’t been this badly beaten in cribbage since the summer vacation before her junior year in high school when Jon had been on a lucky streak a mile long. She hadn’t won a single game against Benjamin, and the accumulated losses started to sting.

“Three massacres in a row is enough, don’t you think? I’d hate to get you too down.” He leaned forward, gently taking the deck from her hands, long fingers grazing across hers as he went.

The contact zapped an electric bolt up her arm and down to her core. She’d thought a few rounds of the card game would make her drowsy; instead, the teasing and smug expression accompanying Benjamin’s wins revved her up even more.

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