Page 18 of Say It Isn't Snow
“Right? She’s a smart girl.”
“Why does she go off on her own if she has a flock?” I wonder.
“She’s just independent according to Jim. I had the same question the first few times she was here. He told me sometimes flock birds feel better off on their own.”
A pang squeezes my heart. My throat thickens with a tangle of understanding and melancholy. I didn’t expect to relate to a goose, but here I am getting misty-eyed.
I swallow the lump clogging my throat. “So what do we do? Take her back?”
“I’ll make a shelter for her in the storage shed so she’s warm and dry, at least until the storm blows over. Once it does, I’ll make the hike to get her home.”
He gets to work, leaving me alone with Greta. I take a seat nearby on the porch swing, sipping my coffee. She nestles into his jacket, honking at me in warning again.
“Be cool, Greta. I don’t want your man. He’s all yours.”
Greta quirks her head. A laugh huffs out of me.
It doesn’t take long for Caleb to rearrange the shed tucked between the trees at the edge of the driveway. I kid myself pretending I’m not watching him shovel snow to make a path from the shed to the porch. Even wearing a sweater, his athletic build is clearly in peak condition. I’m entranced by the appealing flex of his shoulders and biceps paired with the hot grunts of effort as he completes the task.
Warmth simmers in my veins. Once he’s done, he pulls out a hatchet to cut some pine branches which he seems to use for insulating the shelter he’s creating for Greta.
The competence is undeniably alluring.
“Okay, Greta,” he announces when he’s finished. “Home sweet shed. You can head in, Holly. I’ll be right behind you after I get the freeze-proof bowls from my dad’s camping gear to give her water.”
“You don’t need any help?”
“I’m good.”
My lips purse to one side and I hesitate at the door. “I have plenty of oats I brought to bake with. Can we give her that?”
He flashes me a crooked smile. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Feeling useful, I hurry inside to prepare a meal for a goose. While I’m portioning some oats into a wide bowl, I peek in the fridge to see what else I can give her. There’s some fresh spinachthat, honestly, I was only bringing so we’d feel like there was some nutritional balance between the goodies I planned to whip up for girls’ weekend. I also add a small handful of cranberries and find a bag of frozen peas in the freezer to thaw.
Caleb’s handsome features light up when I bring the food out. “This is great, sugar.”
My stomach dips and heat blooms in my cheeks. “It’s nothing.”
Hopefully he thinks I’m blushing because it’s winter, not because of his praise.
Our hands brush when he takes the bowl. He lingers and rubs my fingers with his thumb. I jerk away, rushing into the haven of the cabin to put some much needed space between us.
Not long after, he comes in without a word about…whatever that momentary relapse in sanity was. I know I’m still in hell when he changes out of snow-covered jeans back into slutty gray sweatpants.
“Breakfast?” he suggests, entirely unaware I’m fighting for my life not to drool over him more than I have this morning.
“Breakfast. Yes,” I agree, too cheery and forced for him not to notice.
I become a whirlwind of movement in the cozy kitchen, pulling out pans and cooking utensils, grabbing at random from the groceries we both brought. If I keep active, I don’t have to acknowledge the way his green eyes track me.
He catches me by the shoulders. My heart doesn’t stop racing, picking up speed at the warmth of his body nearly touching my back.
“Sit. I’ll make it,” he murmurs.
“I can do it,” I say automatically.
I’m used to making everyone food. It’s a habit engrained in me to always assume if we’re eating, I’m the one feeding people.
