Page 39 of Snow Storm

He’d gone to bed with Claude wrapped around him, a pit in the center of his stomach because this wasn’t his to keep. This was temporary. He didn’t know if it would go on past the morning.

He was happy, yes. He was content. But he was also grieving the loss of something that hadn’t been taken away yet.

Stretching, he rolled over and let his hand rest on the cool spot beside him. There was a dent in Claude’s pillow, and off to the side of their bed, their clothes were lying in a small mound between the nightstand and the dresser.

It was light out now, and Harley was able to get a good look around the room. It was very much Claude—simple and elegant. The furniture didn’t have a lot of flash, but it was sturdy and probably very expensive. The bed was lower to the ground than the one Harley had at home—and so was the dresser.

He hadn’t really paid much attention to all the ways Claude’s house accommodated him, but thinking back, the kitchen counters had been lower, and the shower and toilet both had grip bars in them.

It was obvious Claude had been on his own for a very long time. He knew the man was divorced. He knew that he’d used this place as an escape. He knew that Claude understood loneliness exactly the same way Harley did.

But he wasn’t foolish enough to think they could build something on that, as much as he wanted to. As much as something in his gut was telling him not to let go of this fragile thing he now held cradled between both hands.

His jaw cracked with a yawn, ruining the still moment, and he sat up, swinging his legs over the bed. He couldn’t hear anything in the house, so he slipped into the bathroom to relieve himself, then dressed in the outfit Claude had helped him pickout the night before. It felt odd and strangely formal. The jeans were a little stiff on the cuffs from having to walk out in the snow, and he hated the sensation.

He wanted to crawl into a pair of sweats and curl up with his laptop so he could pour out all of these emotions into words. And maybe he should do exactly that. He was starting to wonder if Claude had escaped the house to give Harley time to get back to the room without making it awkward.

The thought hurt—a sharp pain in the center of his chest—but he’d been through worse. The death of his father made everything pale in comparison, and the blow to his pride losing Darren to their therapist was a pretty close second.

At least rejection from Claude would be kind. It would be soft and giving and maybe make the moment so much worse for all that it would also be better. But he’d be able to hold his head high, and that mattered.

His socked feet padded gently along the wood floors as he left the room, and it was just as he’d turned to head for the front door that he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The archway to the kitchen had the perfect view of the window that overlooked Claude’s deck, and he could see a black hat bobbing along the very edge.

Claude hadn’t left him. His heart began to beat a staccato pattern against his ribs. He wasn’t alone.

Harley grabbed his boots from the front door, then set them near the sliding glass door off the kitchen and slipped them on his feet. It was only then he pulled the curtain back and saw a sea of white and grey.

The clouds were so fat and so low it looked like they were touching the ground along the horizon, and Harley couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen so much snow. There was no definition to the landscape except the pines, and from where hestood, he could see the drifts had reached halfway up the barn door.

“Good morning.”

Harley jumped when the sliding door opened and Claude appeared. He was holding tightly to his walker, and he was dressed in a thick coat, boots, and jeans. “Sorry,” Harley said, stumbling back. “I thought you left, then I saw you, then I saw that.” He gestured weakly at what the storm had left behind.

Claude let out a sigh as he pushed his walker through the back door and made his way inside with very visibly stiff legs. He grunted with the effort it took him to move, and Harley bit his tongue to keep from asking if he wanted help.

“This was only the beginning. We have a small reprieve, then another few feet of snow this afternoon.”

Harley’s heart jumped in his chest. If something went sour between them, he’d have no escape except to the hotel. “Is it always like this in winter?”

“Some years are worse than others,” Claude said as he sat down in a kitchen chair with a grunt. He was quiet a moment, then looked up slowly. “Are you afraid?”

Harley’s face was usually hard to read, but when he was anxious, his emotions showed. “Well, I’m stuck here, and if you get sick of me?—”

“Oh, chéri.” Claude was back up on his feet again, and Harley hated it because it was obvious he was uncomfortable. But Claude was around the table and pulling Harley close before he could stop him. “No.”

“No?” Harley laughed into the front of Claude’s very cold jacket.

“No,” Claude repeated. His fingers were like ice as they touched Harley under the chin and drew his gaze up. “I won’t get sick of you.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“C’est vrai—it’s true,” he said, first in French, then in English. “But what I do know, I like. And after many years, it’s rare when I can’t tell how I’m going to feel about a person almost right away.”

“Your ex,” Harley countered, then slapped a hand over his mouth. What was wrong with him? Why did he have to blurt out all the fucking quiet parts?

Claude just smiled and shook his head. “She did something bad, but she wasn’t a bad person. She panicked when she wanted out, and she did what she knew would destroy us without a foundation to rebuild on. I wish she had just told me, but I don’t hate her for it. And I don’t regret knowing her.”

Bowing his head, Harley allowed himself to take comfort in Claude’s arms. They weren’t warm, but they were soothing in ways Harley didn’t have words for—which was saying something, considering that was what he did for a living.

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