Page 16 of Snow Much Trouble
The coat is enormous on me, but it's warm and smells like cedar and something faintly floral. I find a pair of hiking boots in the same closet and drag them on. Dylan puts his own boots back on.
He pats Buck on the head. “You stay here.”
That makes me laugh.
Dylan's wrapping a thick plaid scarf around his neck, and without thinking, I reach out and touch the soft wool.
"That's nice," I say.
"My grandma knitted it for me last Christmas." He unwraps it and steps closer, looping it around my neck instead. "You need it more than I do."
He wears a scarf his grandmother made for him?
I might as well get naked right now because that’s not even fair. I can barely resist sexy assholes on a good day. How can I resist a gorgeous nice guy? Even if he likes to verbally spar with me. Hell, that’s half the appeal.
His fingers brush against my throat as he adjusts the scarf. The wool is soft and warm and smells like Dylan—something clean and masculine with a hint of bourbon.
"Thanks," I manage. I actually have my own scarf laying on the bed in my room but I weirdly like the idea of wearing his.
"Can’t have you freezing."
That is clearly wishful thinking because the second we step out onto the deck, the cold hits me like a physical force. The wind has died down, but the snow is still falling steadily, fat flakes that stick to my eyelashes and melt on my cheeks.
"Holy cow," I say, watching my words form white puffs in the frigid air. “It hurts to breathe. But it’s incredible out here.”
The world has been transformed. Every tree branch, every piece of outdoor furniture is covered in a thick blanket of snow. It's beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight—like someone has wrapped the entire mountain in Christmas morning.
I’m already hearing a melody in my head. A song about stillness and anticipation.
"It's beautiful," I whisper.
Dylan's making his way down the steps, and after a moment's hesitation, I follow. The snow crunches under our feet, and my boots immediately fill with the stuff, but I don't care. There's something invigorating about being the first people to walk through fresh snow, leaving footprints like we're explorers discovering a new world.
"The driveway's completely buried," Dylan calls back to me. "They don’t really plow these roads either so we’re definitely here until Sunday."
“As long as we’re not trapped indefinitely. I’ll run out of chocolate.” I take another step across the deck, shuffling a little so I don’t trip over any buried flower pots or fall down the deck steps.
I should be worried about my deadline, about not having any heat, about being trapped in this cabin until spring.
But I’m not. I’m having more fun than I’ve had in months. The crisp cold air is refreshing. Being out of Nashville is relaxing.
And being with Dylan is exciting.
He’s way ahead of me now, so I pick my way down the deck steps. Dylan is following what used to be the driveway downtoward where we parked our cars. I can barely make out the shape of my Honda under the snow. I flick on the flashlight Dylan handed me in the house and sweep it back and forth, marveling at how surrounded by trees we are.
“There are no Big Foot types in these mountains, are there? They’re just in Canada, right?”
“You think Sasquatch cares about a passport?” Dylan asks in amusement. He bends down and forms a snowball. “He can be here if he wants to be here.”
“You’d better not throw that at me.”
“I would never.” He’s tossing it up in the air over and over.
"How deep do you think this snow is?" I ask, finally catching up to him. I bend down and pack together my own snowball.
"At least eight inches already, and it's not supposed to stop until tomorrow afternoon."
I toss the snowball at Dylan. It doesn’t even come close to hitting him but he ducks dramatically anyway.
