Page 10 of Snow Much Trouble
He nudges the thermostat up to seventy-two.
That makes it worse. Now he’s compromising. I suddenly feel warm in spite of my claims. My nipples tighten.
“Thank you,” I say.
He glances briefly at my chest. “You do look cold. I’m not heartless.”
Oh, God. He has noticed the nipples. Red-fucking-alert. He has noticed the nipples.
I fight the urge to cross my arms over my snowflakes.
Dylan
The steaks smell delicious. I can already tell by the way Lauren's watching me work at the stove, her dark eyes tracking every movement as I deglaze the pan that she’s trying to find a criticism but can’t.
"You're very confident in the kitchen," she observes from her perch on one of the bar stools. She's got her chin propped on her hand, and the sequined snowflakes on her sweater are catching the light every time she breathes.
Those snowflakes are damn distracting. Not even their bedazzling could hide that her nipples were showing earlier. It made me imagine how incredible Lauren would look naked and how much I would like to touch her everywhere.
Instead, I’m using this professional grade range to grill the steaks. I’m glad I brought two. I had intended one to be for steak and eggs, but I’m happy to feed Lauren instead. "Years of practice. When you're single and you like to eat well, you learn to cook or you live on takeout forever."
"I'm solidly in the takeout camp," she admits. "Though I make a mean grilled cheese."
"That's not cooking. That's assembling."
She gasps in mock offense. "Take that back! There's technique involved. The butter-to-bread ratio, the cheese distribution, the timing?—"
"Lauren." I turn from the stove to face her fully. "Grilled cheese is basic."
"So are steaks."
She’s not wrong. "It takes skill to get the cook right.”
“Same with grilled cheese.”
We stare each other down. Again. I can’t help myself. I grin at her.
She rolls her eyes and slides off the stool. "Fine, Gordon Ramsay. I'll make my contribution to this feast."
"Which is?"
"Peppermint hot chocolate." She's already pulling supplies from her grocery bags. "If you're going to educate my palate, I might as well corrupt yours."
“No,” I tell her. “Absolutely not. Peppermint is an offensive flavor. It’s like drinking toothpaste.”
“It is not!” She pops a marshmallow into her mouth and chews. “Mmm. So good.”
Shaking my head, I watch her work, and I have to admit there's something mesmerizing about the way she moves around the kitchen. She's humming under her breath—the same melody I heard her testing earlier—and her hips sway slightly as she heats milk on the stove.
Lauren has an energy about her that I like and she’s intelligent. I can admit I haven’t always gone for the brightest girls. More like the girls who looked the hottest on the dating apps and the easiest to avoid falling in love with. I haven’t had time for love.
And more recently, I haven’t even bothered hooking up.
I’m painfully aware of that fact right now.
"So," she says, not looking at me as she stirs. "Four Brothers Bourbon. How'd that come about?"
"My brother MacKay played pro football and he had to retire after a career ending injury." I flip the steaks, satisfied with the sear. "He was looking for something to do with his unexpected free time. Ian, my twin, is an intellectual kind of guy, an introvert. He has a chemistry degree. And my oldest brother, Malcolm, is really business savvy and always looking for investments. When Kentucky started making it easier for small distilleries to get licensed, my brothers and I decided it would make a great investment."
