Page 21 of Snow Bound

She was finally going to play with Grant Snow, she thought giddily, and grabbing a scrub brush, attacked the burnt eggs with enthusiasm.

Grant made the trip into town without incident, and was driving back with a jumbo sized bag of dog food and five pounds of apples—maybe there could be two pies—in short order. Going slow in deference to the snow on the road, and the possible layer of ice underneath it, he glanced at the clock in the dash. Still early, but late enough, he decided, and tapped the screen on the dash to call Michael.

The phone rang once, twice, before it was answered by a deep voice, husky with sleep, and very irritated. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

He couldn’t help but grin. “Hey, buddy. Bad time?”

“Grant?” There was the rustle of sheets and the soft murmur of a female voice in the background. “Why are you calling me at the crack of dawn? I thought you were on vacation.”

Grant drove past half a dozen kids having a snowball fight in the front yard of a tidy little A-frame, and gave brief thought to pulling over and joining them. It looked like fun, and he could work off some of this restless energy. “I am.”

“Are what?”

He turned reluctantly away from the snowball fight and kept driving. “On vacation. Wake up.”

A grunt and a stream of curses flowed out of the phone. “Fuck you. I didn’t get to bed until after four.”

Grant grinned. “What’s her name?”

“None of your business,” came the retort. “What do you want?”

Grant decided to get right to the point. “Anna Goodwin.”

“Hang on.” The voice went faint as Michael presumably turned to talk to his bedmate. “Yes, you can go to the bathroom. Pee, don’t shower. Then come back–I’m not done with you.”

Grant grinned at the sharp smack and accompanying squeal.

“Now,” Michael growled into the phone. “Who are you calling me about?”

“Anna Goodwin,” Grant repeated.

“Jesus, are you still stuck on her?” Michael asked, amusement coloring his gruff tone. “It’s been a year and a half, Grant, and the girl is gone. Move on.”

“The girl is not gone,” Grant countered. “She’s here.”

“What?”

“She’s here,” he repeated. “At my mom’s house. Where I’m on vacation.”

“How the hell did that happen?”

“I’ll give you the short version,” Grant told him, and did.

“Huh,” was Michael’s response.

“That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“No, but hang on a minute.”

Grant waited, listening to Michael tell his bedmate, apparently back from her trip to the bathroom, to sit on the floor until he got back, then footsteps as he left the room.

“What, you’re not making her wait ass-up and spread out?”

“No, I’m making her sit her already bruised ass on an upside down floor mat from my car.”

“Good one,” Grant said admiringly, and made a mental note. The little rubber nubs that kept the mat in place on the car’s carpet would be delightful torture for a tender bottom. “You’re a fucking innovator, man. A modern day Henry Ford—you know, without the eugenics, antisemitism, and racism.”

There was a snort of laughter and the sound of a door closing, and Grant knew Michael was now in his private—and soundproofed—home office.

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