Page 19 of Tee the Season
“That young man is working very hard,” Aunt Mae observes from her seat at the kitchen table, her walker parked beside her. She watches him with the sharp-eyed assessment of someone who’s seen eighty-two winters and knows exactly what effort looks like.
“He is.” I fill the kettle and set it on the stove, trying not to smile at the way Rory pauses to study how much farther he has to go.
“And he’s staying with you?”
There’s no judgment in her tone, just curiosity. Still, heat creeps up my neck. “Just until I can get him to the hotel where he’s booked.”
“Mm-hmm.” She drums her fingers on the table, a gleam in her eye that means she’s about to say something I won’t like. “How convenient.”
“Aunt Mae—”
“I’m just saying, dear. A handsome man. A snowstorm. Your apartment.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “Sounds like the beginning of a steamy romance best-seller.”
I busy myself with the tea tin, pulling out her favorite for this time of year, Winter Spice. “It’s not like that. We’re just…riding it out.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“Aunt Mae!” But I laugh despite myself, because this is exactly the kind of thing she’d say. Even before the stroke, she was never one to beat around the bush.
Outside, Rory’s moved to the porch steps, clearing each one with methodical precision. The orange hat is a beacon against all the white, and I catch myself wondering if he’s warm enough, if the gloves are too bulky, if—
“You’re staring,” Aunt Mae says mildly.
I yank my gaze back to the kettle. “I’m making sure he doesn’t hurt himself. He’s from Arizona. He doesn’t really know how to shovel properly.”
“He seems to be managing just fine.” She pauses. “So. What’s his story?”
I should deflect. Change the subject. But Aunt Mae has a way of looking at me that makes lying feel pointless. “We, um. We had a thing. At Leah’s wedding.”
“A thing.”
“A one-night thing.” The kettle whistles, and I grab it, pouring water over the teabags. “And then he flew back into town, and we thought maybe we’d have a…a round two. Get it out of our systems.”
“And is it? Out of your systems?”
I set down the kettle harder than necessary. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how? He seems nice. Kind. Strong. Good with a shovel.” She accepts the mug I hand her, wrapping both hands around it. “Is he a reader?”
Despite everything, I smile. “He knows his chapter books. Has a niece who makes him read to her over FaceTime.”
Aunt Mae’s eyebrows rise with approval. “Well then. That’s something.” She takes a sip of tea, studying me over the rim. “My advice, dear? Take full advantage of your forced proximity. That man is delicious.”
“Aunt Mae!”
“What? I had a stroke, not a lobotomy. I can still appreciate a well-built man when I see one.” Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “And if you’re not interested, perhaps I should invite him to stay here instead—”
“He’s fine where he is,” I say quickly. Her chuckle is pure delight.
The front door opens with a blast of cold air, and Rory appears in the doorway, snow clinging to his coat and that ridiculous hat. His cheeks are flushed from exertion, his breath coming in visible puffs, and when his eyes find mine across the kitchen, something warm unfurls in my chest.
“Walkway’s clear,” he announces, unwinding the scarf. “Steps, too, though they’ll probably need another pass in a few hours with how hard it’s coming down.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” Aunt Mae says, with genuine gratitude in her voice. “Come in; sit down. Have some tea before you freeze solid.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He’s already shrugging out of his wool coat. My wool coat, technically, and hangs it on the hook by the door.
I pour him a mug while he settles at the table across from Aunt Mae, pulling off the gloves, finger by finger.
