Page 6 of Their Little Snow Angel
“Heath.”
I lower my voice to a whisper. “She’s Mason’s daughter.”
He matches my volume. “And she’s hot as fuck.”
“Which is why we need to leave, dumbass.”
He laughs. Shakes his head. Takes another bite of pasta.
I wish I could be like Brody sometimes. He doesn’t give a fuck. Well, sometimes he does. He gave a fuck about Juliette, same as me. And we all saw how that turned out. Vlad the Impaler would’ve been kinder on our hearts.
“Mason will kill us.”
“Mason doesn’t have to find out. And besides, she’s a frightened little angel. I doubt anything happens.”
“But you hope something does.”
He glances toward the stairs—toward her bedroom. “As I said, she’s hot as fuck.”
I toss a piece of garlic bread at him and get up to clean the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later, I have a towel wrapped around my waist as I step onto the back deck. Steam rises from the hot tub as I lift the cover. I drop the towel and ease into the water.
Perfection. Exactly what I need after the long drive. I lean back, close my eyes. Tomorrow, if we don’t leave—and if I’m honest with myself, I don’t want to—I’ll strap on my snowshoes and head into the woods. I’d love to get a photo of a bobcat. I have several, but none are the composition I have in my head. Nature doesn’t always conform to desire.
A face peers at me from the upstairs window. Violet.
Is that little girl checking me out?
You wish, old man.
I should be charitable. We crashed her weekend, after all. Even though having her here with me will make my dick hard, and I’ll have to hide the fact I’m naked in the water, I wave and point to the hot tub. I gesture that she can join me.
A long moment passes where she simply stares.
Then she shakes her head and disappears from the window.
This is better. It’s better to keep her far out of my reach.
I tell myself I’m relieved.
But mostly, I’m disappointed.
4
Brody
The Joshua tree in my image is too washed out. I adjust the settings with my track pad, moving them this way and that.
The tree clarifies, the bark coming into stark relief.
Much better.
It’s time-consuming, editing photos. It’s not like what people do with filters. Click a button and get some hypersaturated or strangely monotone look. I’ve adjusted about ten different aspects—editing, tweaking, creating the perfect image out of an imperfect photograph.
I stretch, roll my shoulders. Heath is still in the hot tub. Maybe I should join him, let the hot water loosen my muscles.
I blink and look around the room. I’ve always liked this place. Three large love seats surround a giant coffee table, perfect for family games or, right now, for my photo editing laptop. A couple of armchairs rest in front of an ottoman.
