Page 9 of Snow Much Trouble
"Did you just demonstrate a fundamental misunderstanding of kitchen organization?"
I think what I fundamentally understand is that he’s annoying. "How do you organize your bourbon?"
"I organize by distillery, then age, then proof."
Of course he does. "You're insane. It clearly should be organized by the color of the labels. And whether the labels are cute or ugly."
“Now that’s insane. Then again, you are the woman who brought marshmallows shaped like snowmen."
I pull the bag of marshmallows off of the counter and wave them at him. "These are festive. And functional. And they make hot chocolate infinitely better."
"They're ridiculous."
"You're ridiculous. And pretentious. Who brings thirty-year-old bourbon to a cabin to drink by himself?"
"Someone who appreciates quality." Dylan moves my coffee back to where he thinks it belongs. "Unlike someone who brings break-and-bake cookies and doesn't actually bake them."
"Those cookies are delicious raw!"
"Raw cookie dough is a salmonella risk."
"That’s not even true. They wouldn’t sell it with raw egg in it. It’s only a risk if you’re making them from scratch."
We're standing in the middle of the kitchen glaring at each other over grocery placement. I’m not going to back down. To my relief, Dylan gives me a smirk. But then he heads over to the thermostat and adjusts it.
I immediately feel compelled to see what he's doing. “Don’t touch that. I turned it up when I got here.”
"Seventy-eight degrees? Are you trying to recreate the surface of the sun?"
"I run cold."
"Well, I run hot, and I'm not spending my weekend sweating." He turns the thermostat down to seventy.
"Seventy is arctic,” I protest.
"Seventy is civilized."
“All these reindeer are going to need hats and scarves,” I mutter.
“There is a frighteningly large amount of reindeers in here, isn’t there?”
Yes, but, I still say, “I like the reindeer. The one by the door is named Buck.”
“Named by who?”
“Me.”
“Of course you did.” Dylan's smile is slow and warm, like honey in tea.
Damn it. That smile is definitely trouble.
I specifically came here to be alone. This is probably going to ruin my chance of getting any writing done at all. But there's something about Dylan Lennox that's making my pulse race in a way that has nothing to do with the bourbon I drank.
Maybe it's the way he looks completely at home in this cozy space, like he belongs among the twinkling lights and pine garland. Maybe it's the way he poured that ridiculously expensive bourbon like it was a religious experience.
Or maybe it's just that he's the first man in months who's made me forget about my ex and my deadline and my perpetual anxiety about whether I'll ever actually make it as a songwriter.
I struggle to find a sassy comeback to his words. I’m usually pretty darn good at those but right now I have nothing. I’m getting lost in his green eyes like I’m fifteen and he’s the star quarterback.
