Page 47 of Jack Frost

Page List

Font Size:

I flick away the tears and drag my gaze up to Jack's face.

His mouth twists in a devilish smile, but his eyes are wells of sympathy. "Want me to freeze Minnick's dick for you?"

I choke on a laugh. "What is it with you wanting to freeze people's privates?"

He shrugs. "It's fun?"

"Have you ever actually done that to a guy?"

"No."

"Just as I thought. You talk a big game, but you're too nice inside." I tap his chest, over the crisp white shirt.

He catches my hand, his expression turning serious. "Emery, I want you to know—"

"Happy holidays, everyone!" Newt Minnick's voice booms through the microphone at the head of the room, startling me.

"I've got to film his little welcome speech," I whisper to Jack. "I'll be back."

Minnick's presentation takes about forty minutes and includes a good deal of ass-kissing and sly praise for himself under the guise of lauding the conservancy's accomplishments over the past year. By the time he winds down, guests are shifting restlessly in their seats.

Once Minnick is done, his co-director Marian steps up to introduce the auctioneer and the pieces for the live auction. I return to my seat to find Jack gripping his water glass, white-knuckled.

"Careful!" I stroke his fingers until they loosen. "You'll break it. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm just excited about the auction."

Under the table, his knee is jiggling up and down wildly. The tablecloth is turning stiff and icy where his fingers rest on it.

"Jack!" I hiss at him. "Calm down. Geez."

A luxurious spa package goes first, followed by a two-day retreat in a mountain cabin. Then Marian steps forward again, while three men roll out a massive something, covered by a huge white sheet.

"This piece was donated just a couple days ago by a North Carolina artist who happens to be with us tonight. He presented this sculpture as an exclusive, one-of-a-kind tribute—" she consults a notecard— "dedicated to the adventurers whose passion and courage make the world a brighter place. Thank you, Mr. Jack Snowden, for your generous donation." She indicates our table, and Jack rises partway out of his seat to wave as the guests break into polite applause.

A wild thrill turns my insides to jelly. A sculpture? Donated by Jack?

"We will unveil the piece and give you a moment before we start the bidding." Marian moves back, and the men grip the covering over the sculpture.

As the sheet slides away, a collective gasp ripples over the room.

I don't know what kind of stone it is—marble, maybe? White, swirled with smoky blue in places. The figure is a woman on one knee, leaning forward, eagerness in every line of her body. She holds a camera with a long lens, but instead of looking through it, she's looking over the top of it, her eyes fixed on a distant point. There's strength in her face—a fierce purpose—but she's half-smiling, too, as if what she sees is wondrous beyond belief. The stony folds of her clothing sweep across her body as if wind is blowing them, hugging her curves without highlighting them. Her short hair is wind-blown as well, and so beautifully crafted that it looks real. Touchable.

The woman is me.

I know it when I look into her face, and the thought is confirmed when both Minnick's and Alice's heads swivel my way.

I don't know when Jack had time to create this. He must have been working on it since the day I fell into his cave and woke him up; and it's quite likely that he used magic to speed the process along.

I'm glad he did, because now I have the answers I was searching for earlier tonight.

Love gleams in every line of that sculpture. This is how Jack sees me—not as a purveyor of magical healing, or a sexualized object. In this piece of art I am strong. Adventurous. Visionary. It's as if he reached down into my soul and extracted the best part of me, and then placed it on a pedestal for all to see.

He loves me.

The skilled fingers that crafted the sculpture are drumming a nervous rhythm on the table beside me. Those hands showered sleet onto forest fires, helping to save countless lives and homes. Those fingers endured blistering burns, caught me when I tumbled from the cliff, made dinner when I was hungry, brought me coffee when I was tired.

The bidding is skyrocketing, eager hands lifting one after another all over the room. I don't hear the final number because I have collected Jack's hand in mine, and I'm telling him, with my eyes, how I feel.