Chapter 16
CHAPTER 16
JULIET
J uliet stared at the blinking cursor as snowflakes swirled past the window beyond her laptop screen, sparkling like flecks of glitter against the night sky. Cocooned in her very own wintry snow globe, surrounded by the pleasantly musty scent of old, leather-bound books, her fingers should be flying across the keyboard.
And yet, she couldn’t conjure a single sentence, let alone ten chapters. So far, her quiet, distraction-free writing retreat hadn’t turned out the way she’d planned.
That morning, she’d gone to the middle school with Nate, as promised. While she looked over the costumes with Eliza and her mother, Sylvia—the director of Poppy Creek’s small theater company—Nate had worked on the sets with Luke and Eliza’s husband, Grant, a local artist.
Every time she stole a glance at Nate above the clothing racks, she caught him looking at her. Once, he’d even smashed his own finger with the hammer, which made her feel terrible that he’d hurt himself, but also thrilled she’d been the subject of his attention.
She couldn’t explain why, other than something had shifted between them during their outing to the tree farm yesterday. Nothing seismic or earth-shattering. Something subtle. But just enough to make her breath quicken whenever he walked into the room.
And tonight, knowing Frank and Aunt Beverly had decided to stay at their friend Dolores’s until the storm passed, leaving her and Nate alone in the house, breathing normally commanded all her concentration.
The tempting aroma of something sweet and spicy wafting from the kitchen didn’t help, either. She wouldn’t have pegged Nate as a baker. But then, there were a lot of things she didn’t know about him. A state of affairs she’d like to rectify.
She shut her laptop.
Don’t do it, Jules. Stay in the study and get back to work.
She stood and smoothed out the crease in her wool skirt.
Put your backside back in that chair, young lady.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers twitched with nervous energy—nervous energy laced with excitement.
Ignoring the inner voice warning her to stay put, she followed the festive melody of “White Christmas” to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway.
Her racing heartbeat stuttered to a stop.
Nate stood at the butcher block island, the sleeves of his hunter-green Henley pushed up to his elbows. As he squeezed the handle of the antique flour sifter, his muscular forearm flexed.
Her faulty pulse revved to life, stumbling a few beats before kicking into overdrive. She never knew a man could look so alluring coated in flour. Fried chicken, yes. That made sense. But a man? Wow . Her mouth watered.
He must have sensed her staring, because he lifted his gaze from the sifter. “Sorry, is the music too loud? I can turn it down.” He reached for the phone in his front pocket.
“No, it’s nice.” It sounded like the original motion picture soundtrack of White Christmas , with all four stars of the film harmonizing together. The nostalgic notes conjured one of the few fond memories Juliet had with her mother during the holidays. She’d been nine, and her mother had put on the movie to distract her while she graded papers. Instead, her mother had been sucked into the film, too, and they’d watched it together with mugs of hot chocolate and buttered popcorn sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar.
Smiling at the memory, Juliet joined Nate at the small kitchen island. “What are you making?”
“It’s supposed to be mince pie, but I can’t seem to get it right.” He frowned at a pie cooling on the stovetop. The blackened crust sank into the center.
“What recipe are you using?”
“The one in Cassie’s book.” He tipped his head toward the open Christmas Calendar on the counter. “Bake a mince pie is the day’s task. Technically, I can check it off the list. But I’d like it to at least be edible, so I’m giving it another try.”
“You’re taking this Christmas Calendar seriously, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He looked so adorably earnest. Especially with a big smudge of flour on his right cheek.
She resisted the urge to wipe it away. With his hint of stubble, she expected his skin to be a little rough, but in a good way.
At the thought, her fingertips tingled. She curled them into her palm, dismissing the inappropriate impulse to touch a man she barely knew, no matter how attractive. Get a grip, Jules .
“I’ll let you in on the secret to a perfect, flaky crust. It’s a trick Aunt Beverly taught me.”
“I’m all ears.” He stepped to the side, making room for her at the island.
As she drew closer, she caught a heady whiff of pine and vetiver. Was it his soap? Cologne? Aftershave? It smelled heavenly. “First, we need a cheese grater.”
“A cheese grater?” Nate grimaced. “You put cheese in your pie crust?”
“You don’t have to look so horrified.” She laughed. “It’s for the butter.”
While Nate found the cheese grater, she grabbed two sticks of butter from the overstuffed freezer.
“Now what?” He set the grater on the counter.
“Now, we turn all of this ice-cold buttercream into a big pile of fluffy snowflakes.”
While she worked—gathering the golden shavings into a bowl—Nate watched over her shoulder, so close she could feel his body heat. For one brash second, she imagined his arms wrapping around her from behind. What if he took one more step and closed the gap between them?
Snap out of it, Jules. This isn’t a Hallmark movie.
She concentrated on not scraping the skin off her fingers.
“Now we add it to the flour?” Nate asked when she’d finished. Was it her imagination or did his voice sound a little raspy, as if he had trouble breathing, too?
“Not yet. The friction from grating warmed up the butter. We have to cool it down again.” She opened the freezer but couldn’t find room for the bowl. Glancing out the window at the fluttering snowflakes, she had an idea. “Follow me.”
They stepped into the stillness of the back porch, protected by the overhang, facing a tapestry of frosted pines. Before them, silvery moonlight illuminated a wonderland of white. As if on cue, the White Christmas soundtrack emanating from Nate’s pocket emitted the timely song “Snow,” the dulcet refrain serenading the idyllic scene.
She’d never witnessed anything more magical, and despite the chilly temperature, she stood in awed silence, basking in the unblemished beauty of the wintry woodland.
By her side, Nate murmured, “‘Whose woods these are I think I know. / His house is in the village though; / He will not see me stopping here / To watch his woods fill up with snow.’”
The poetic words of Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” came to life before her eyes, so perfect and pure.
“‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep, / But I have promises to keep,’” she whispered back, skipping ahead to her favorite stanza. “‘And miles to go before I sleep.’”
“‘And miles to go before I sleep,’” Nate repeated the last line, his voice low and reverent.
They stood side by side in companionable silence for a moment while “Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep”—another song from the White Christmas soundtrack—played softly in the background. The poignant lyrics and soulful strain stirred something deep within her, drawing emotions she’d long suppressed.
“That poem always makes me sad,” she admitted, shivering in the cold. The frigid air chilled all the way to her bones, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want the moment to end. “I get this sense that Frost wanted to stay longer, to admire nature’s splendor. But he couldn’t. Duty and obligation, whether external or self-imposed, stole his freedom to be present and enjoy one of God’s gifts.” She felt the same pressure—the pressure to constantly achieve, to prove her worth. How many simple pleasures had she missed in life, always striving for something greater?
“I don’t want to be like the man in the poem,” she confessed with a surge of conviction that sprang from deep within her soul. “We should make the most of every moment. And if there’s something we’ve been wanting to do, we shouldn’t put it off, right?”
She turned toward Nate, wondering if anything she’d said made any sense at all, wondering why she’d shared something so personal. He possessed this intangible quality—a quiet, steady presence—that made her feel safe to divulge her innermost thoughts, as if she instinctively knew she could trust him. Perhaps she could trust him with even more than her thoughts.
He gazed at her with a fire in his eye she’d never seen before. With slow and deliberate movements, he took the bowl from her hands and set it on the railing. He took a step toward her, bridging the divide.
Gently, he cupped the side of her face, his palm warm against her skin.
She sucked in a breath, the cool air slipping past her slightly parted lips.
His gaze fell to her mouth, the firm pressure of his thumb tracing from her cheekbone to just beneath her chin.
He tilted her head, angling her lips toward his.
Her body trembled.
She arched her back, yearning to be closer, to be fully enveloped in his arms.
If he didn’t kiss her soon, she’d melt into a puddle at his feet.