Page 62 of Love Under Snowfall

Inside, Benjamin swept the shattered glass into a dustpan. He was fully dressed, but that didn’t keep Frankie from shivering at the recollection of what lay underneath his layers. Rock solid sex appeal. She grinned, watching him as he worked.

“Good morning,” she purred, slowly letting the blanket slide low on her breasts, hinting at the rosy peaks beneath. “Care for a little breakfast to start your morning?”

The length of time it took Benjamin to turn his head after letting out a heavy sigh cooled her libido. He leveled his gaze on her eyes with no consideration to drift lower. Enveloping herself against the sudden chill, she cleared her throat. “Is . . . Is everything ok?”

“Fine,” he clipped. The sweeping recommenced. “I just want to get out of here.”

“Yeah. Same.”

Frankie hovered a moment then turned back and dressed hastily in the living room. It wasn’t like she was expecting to cuddle up like a couple or anything, but she had expected a little more warmth. Perhaps a lingering hum of desire. A tiny crackle of want, like embers that hadn’t yet burned out in a campfire. Not a fully extinguished flame that fizzled before it ever had a chance to roar.

Maybe he slept like shit.

It made sense and would explain a lot. She leaned into that scenario as she folded the quilts they used for their makeshift bed.

They worked around each other, erasing any evidence that they’d spent two nights in the cabin aside from the broken window and reduced supply of dried goods. In their silence, the process took about an hour, and as they hoisted on their packs and stepped out the door, Frankie wondered where the hell she’d gone wrong.

The sun hovered blindingly in the cloudless winter sky. It shined cheerily down upon the undisturbed snowfall that coated the trees and boulders meandering along the valley. The blanket of crystalline flecks covered the dips and mounds like fistfuls of iridescent sanding sugar on a white cake. Every now and then a delicate breeze drifted through the trees, kissing the branches together with the tinkling chime of ice against ice. The air smelled fresh. Long gone was the musty scent of autumn with its fallen leaves and earthy mushrooms. Winter had arrived despite what the calendar said, and typically, Frankie would have been overjoyed.

Typically.

Instead, the sour tang of rejection sullied her tongue as she tried to enjoy the leathery piece of jerky that was her breakfast. Even without the breeze, it was cold. The temperature likely hovered around the high teens, but she didn’t feel much of it.

What she felt was pissed.

And a little used.

The humor in that wasn’t lost on her; it just didn’t land like it should have. Typically, she was the one doing the using, although the men she played with were always happy to oblige, so could she really call it that?

Neither she nor Benjamin had spoken beyond a quick “you ready” and a “yep” as they left the life-saving shelter. And then, with the trudge in knee-deep snow on what Frankie was pretty sure was the trail that would lead them to a trailhead along Highway 2, the silence was loud. Deafening. A distraction.

Unable to hold her ire back any longer, she spun around.

“What thehell, Benji?”

His eyes widened behind foggy glasses as he popped his head up in surprise. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb,professor.” She air quoted his title as the scorn dripped with her words.

“Iama professor.”

“What?”

“I am a professor,” he said exasperatedly, removing his crooked frames and buffing out the lenses with his undershirt. He replaced the smeared result on the bridge of his aristocratically masculine nose. “Air quotes imply satire or sarcasm when applied to a phrase, but since I do, in fact, teach at a university—”

“Ohmygod, stop.” She retraced a few steps using established footprints and lumbered angrily back to him. “You know what I am talking about—last night. We had sex—great sex, actually—and now you’re enacting the silent treatment like I . . . I dunno . . . like I switched your lecture USB drive with one loaded full of dick pics or something.”

His lip twitched, though Frankie couldn’t be sure if it was while suppressing a smile or a frown. Either way, it was a reaction.

Finally.

Anger would be fine.

Amusement would be fine, even if it were at her expense. But what she couldn’t handle was the reinsertion of an aloof chill, not so soon after they’d . . .

“It’s not personal,” he finally said.

“Well, I should hope not. I know I didn’t do anything wrong.” She crossed her arms, recalling the way their bodies molded together, how filthy words flowed from his characteristically proper mouth.

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