Page 25 of Say It Isn't Snow
The fantasy of what could’ve been flashes in my mind.
How he’d hover his lips over mine and ask if I wanted him to kiss me.
How I’d whisperyes.
His embrace tightening and the relieved groan that might slip out of him before his mouth collided with mine in a sizzling kiss full of the passion we once burned with together.
I press my chilled fingers to my lips and close my eyes before fantasy Caleb lifts me by my waist to the counter and fits his sexy sculpted body between my thighs.
I want to stay mad at him and hold on to my grudge forever. Yet he’s finding every possible way to get under my skin by being so doting. I swear, before I even realize I need something, he seems to anticipate it.
Whether it’s bringing me a blanket and a mug of hot cocoa while I’m reading by the fire, warming my towel before I shower, or cleaning up for me after I spend hours baking—he thoughtfully sees to everything little I could want without being asked.
He’s tempting me to risk it all by letting my guard down. It’s difficult to thwart when he comes across as a far more grown up and earnest version of himself than the driven boy who left to become a professional hockey player. Trouble is…if I did, would we be repeating our short-lived indulgence only for him to pick hockey over me again?
Why does it have to be him my heart is so smitten with? It doesn’t matter that I’m attracted to more than one gender, no one has ever made it beat as strongly as he does.
Normally in this precarious situation I’d ask Layla for her advice, but going to my best friend about her brother is out of the question. The thrill of sneaking around because we were young and impulsive made us keep things a secret before. When things ended before we got serious, I ended up not telling Layla, struck by how ridiculous I was for catching feelings over a fling.
I miss her, though. We rarely go more than forty-eight hours without talking. The cell signal is still spotty since it stopped snowing two days ago, and after checking in with my brotherfirst, I only manage to chat with Layla for short spurts before it drops.
At least Leo called Hazel down to Mayfield to help him and Leta manage things at Blissful Bites while I’m gone. They’ve all promised me they’re going to take good care of my baby.
The blizzard might be over, but it left everything buried under heaps of fresh snow. We’re still stuck here until the roads are cleared.
Since Caleb took care of cooking,again, I thought I’d pay him back by chopping more firewood so we’re even.
I’m getting nowhere with it. The best I managed was splintering a piece that’s little more than kindling. I keep missing or getting the axe stuck partway down the log before it cuts all the way through.
The thought of asking Caleb for his help crosses my mind.
I hastily chase the urge away. Not only because I don’t want to admit defeat, but also because asking foranyone’shelp is difficult for me. It makes me feel like I’m making a burden of myself. I figure things out on my own, the way I always have. It’s faster and far easier than opening myself up for the chance to be let down.
Raising the axe overhead, I squint at my target and let it have it with a fierce yell.
I think I’ve got it this time. The swing felt good and I connected with the wood. Except to my dismay, the blade is stuck halfway through the log I’ve been chipping away at.
“Ugh. Me and wood are not getting along up here.”
It takes some struggling and planting my foot on the log to remove the axe. When it pops free, I stumble backwards, catching myself before I plant my ass in a snowbank Caleb shoveled a path through so we could walk to the wood pile. He hasn’t cleared the massive amounts of snow engulfing our cars yet.
After blowing loose strands of pink hair from my face, I grip the handle hard enough to choke and prop my fists on my hips. While the logical side of my brain understands that every skill takes practice to achieve the desired end result, it really irritates me when I’m not immediately good at something.
A judgmental honk from Greta makes me laugh and hang my head back.
Once the storm was over, Caleb hiked the two miles and back to get her home to the farm, but she’s returned today. She parked her fluffy white goose butt nearby when I started my attempts to chop wood.
“You’re not helping,” I tell her.
She preens her feathers with a distinct cluck that I can only interpret as her giving me attitude.
“Keep it up and you’re cut off from my cranberries,” I warn.
The goose ignores me, helping herself to the berries I brought out for her when she appeared out of the pine trees. As I get ready for chopping attempt number…I’ve lost count, she wanders off around the bushes.
“You can do this,” I coach. “Line it up where you want to hit it. Picture it’s Caleb’s head. His inflated, infuriatingly attractive face.”
I swing and wedge it right into the same spot I got stuck in before. This time it’s not budging when I tug the handle.
