Page 8 of Snow Much Trouble
Dylan holds up his hands in surrender. "Fair enough. Want to put something on while we figure out dinner?"
I'm about to suggest something suitably retro—maybe some Loretta Lynn to really mess with his head—when my phone buzzes with an emergency alert. Dylan's phone goes off at the same time, both devices emitting that jarring alarm sound that makes your blood pressure immediately spike.
"Winter storm warning," I read aloud. "Heavy snow expected through Sunday morning. White-out conditions. Travel not recommended."
Dylan's reading his own phone. "Winds up to forty miles per hour. Possible power outages."
As if on cue, the lights flicker.
"Not good," I mutter.
The lights flicker again, longer this time, and I notice Dylan's already moving toward the large wood burning fireplace in the family room. He's checking the damper and inspecting the basket of fire starter supplies, making sure we have backup heat if the power goes out completely.
Smart. I’m annoyed with myself for not thinking of that before him.
Then I give an involuntary shudder as I consider a power outage and me here all by myself. I’m a strong woman, but that would have been creepy as hell. And cold. Very, very cold.
"There's a woodpile on the back deck," he says, already heading for the sliding door. "We should bring some inside before it gets buried."
"We?" I hold up my hands. “I need these fingers.”
"I’m not asking you to karate chop the wood. Just to carry logs in that have already been cut.”
That makes me feel like a cabin princess. Which I would like to be, but only with a brawny boyfriend who will want to indulge me, not a man I just met. I feel like I have to prove myself cabin-worthy to Dylan.
"Fine. But I'm not carrying the heavy logs." Okay, so half-prove it.
"Wouldn't dream of asking you to." His tone is dry, but he's already pulling his hoodie back on. "Your delicate songwriter hands might get splinters."
"My delicate songwriter hands have calluses from guitar strings, thank you very much."
"You just said you have delicate fingers.”
“No. I said Ineedmy fingers.” Before I can think better of it, I'm holding out my left hand, showing him the fingertip calluses that every serious guitarist develops. Dylan takes my handin his, running his thumb over my fingertips with surprising gentleness.
"Impressive," he murmurs, and his voice has gone lower, rougher.
My breath catches. His hands are warm and slightly rough, like I noticed before, and the way he's touching me is definitely not platonic. There's something in his green eyes that makes my stomach do a little flip.
Then the lights flicker again and we both drop hands like we've been burned.
"Logs," I say quickly. "We should get the logs."
"Right. Logs."
We make a great team going out on the deck with me passing logs to Dylan to cart them into the house. We make quick work of the chilly task, then I head into the kitchen to rearrange our combined groceries while he stacks the wood next to the fireplace.
The minute he comes back to the kitchen, it’s clear we have very different ideas about organization.
As in mine are right and his are dumb.
"Why are you putting the coffee next to the cereal?" Dylan asks, shaking snow off of his hoodie. "Coffee goes with other hot beverages."
"Coffee is a breakfast drink. It goes with breakfast foods."
"Coffee is not a breakfast drink. Coffee is a necessity that transcends mealtimes."
I turn to stare at him. "I can’t dispute that necessarily, but you start the day with coffee and breakfast so it should be there for first use. And did youactuallyjust give me a lecture about coffee categorization?"
