Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Alex
My grandmother's Victorian home creaked and groaned under the weight of fresh snow.
The sounds dragged me from sleep before my phone buzzed with Mrs. Brubaker's message postponing rehearsal until the afternoon.
I lay in bed, listening to the radiator's hiss, the slight whistle of wind through original window panes, and the occasional soft thump of snow sliding off the steep roof.
The world outside had transformed overnight. Six inches of pristine powder draped every surface, turning Grandma's wraparound porch into a frosted confection. She used to say heavy snows were Mother Nature's way of forcing everyone to slow down and appreciate true beauty.
The pristine snow softened the town's Christmas decorations that nearly suffocated me upon arrival. Instead of kitschy and overwhelming, Yuletide Valley now looked like it belonged in an antique snow globe. Serene and somehow timeless.
Three sharp knocks landed on the front door. I found Ben on my porch, breath misting in the cold air, with an antique wooden sled propped against his leg.
He didn't even pause to say hello. "Before you say no," his eyes caught the morning light, "this is a perfect Flexible Flyer from 1952 that I recently restored. I precisely calibrated the runners for an optimal speed-to-control ratio."
I crossed my arms. "You restored an antique sled in case there was a big snowstorm while I was here?"
"Actually, I restored it months ago, but this is the first snow deep enough to test it." He ran his hand along the sled's polished wooden deck the same way he'd touched those craftsman's marks last night. "Unless you're worried about messing up that cashmere sweater?"
"I do own practical clothes. Give me five minutes."
"Better make it ten." He glanced at my thin socks through the doorway. "Something tells me your idea of winter gear might need a few revisions."
When I reappeared in designer rain boots and a delicate cashmere scarf, Ben pressed his lips together. His shoulders shook slightly.
"Those are from SoHo," I said defensively.
"They're lovely. For the city." He jerked his thumb toward the house. "Check the entry cabinet—third drawer for a real scarf, and there should be snow boots in the closet by the kitchen."
"You seem very familiar with my grandmother's organizational system."
"She kept spare gear for half the town." His voice softened, the teasing edge vanishing. "Always prepared for someone who needed help staying warm."
I found everything where he said it was, including fleece-lined work gloves that had clearly seen bitter winter weather. When I returned properly equipped, Ben reached out and adjusted the wool scarf around my neck. His fingers lingered against my collar.
"There. Now you won't freeze to death on my watch."
"Your concern is touching."
"Someone has to look out for the town's temporary Santa." His thumb brushed my collar. "Can't have you getting frostbite before you've even won over the rest of the kids. Sophie would never forgive me."
The mention of the trust those children had placed in me at rehearsal made a knot form in my chest in a good way. To cover the surge of emotion, I gestured at the sled. "Shouldn't we test your perfect restoration job before the snow melts?"
He stepped back and smiled. "Now that you're properly equipped for actual winter activities."
We trudged through snowdrifts toward the edge of town.
The sled's runners left twin tracks behind us, clean lines bisecting the unbroken white.
Our boots crunched through the powder with each step, and occasionally the wind would gust, sending snow crystals skittering across the surface with a sound like scattered rice.
Ben kept pausing to examine how cleanly the runners cut through the powder. Each time he crouched to study the trail, his whole body leaned into the inspection—shoulders forward, head tilted, fingers tracing the edges.
"You really love this stuff, don't you?" I watched him brush powder from the runners with careful fingers, his brow furrowed in concentration. "It's always fun to see you get excited about how things work."
He shouldered the sled. Snow cascaded off its deck with a whisper. "Like how I feel when you're giving Jack meticulous instructions on shoulder alignment?"
"That's different. That's just technical—"
"Just technical?" Ben stopped walking. "I've watched you demonstrate the same move fifty times until he got it right. Your whole face changes when you're teaching—you forget to guard yourself."
Before I could respond, we crested a slight rise, and the sledding hill spread out before us. Fresh snow blanketed its surface, unmarred by other tracks. A few crows called from the trees at the hill's edge, their caws sharp in the winter air.
"Nobody else is here?"
"One of the benefits of knowing the local spots." Ben set the sled down carefully. "This used to be the best hill in town, but everyone forgot about it when they built the new park closer to downtown."
I eyed the slope's steep angle, unconsciously touching the small scar under my eye. The raised tissue was cold beneath my fingertip. Ben noticed immediately.
"We can start halfway down. There's no pressure to—"
"No." I squared my shoulders. "I'm not letting an old scar dictate my winter fun. Still, a demonstration of proper technique wouldn't hurt."
His face lit up. He straightened, eyes brightening. "Proper technique involves optimal weight distribution and—" He saw my expression and rubbed the back of his neck. "And I'm doing it again, aren't I?"
"It's endearing."
Color rose in Ben's face. He covered by positioning the sled at the hill's crest, explaining the finer points of steering while I found myself watching the sure movements of his hands more than following the instructions.
His fingers demonstrated the proper grip, and I remembered how those same hands had cradled my jaw last night.
His first run down the hill was effortless. The antique sled responded to subtle weight shifts, cutting clean arcs through the snow. The runners made a steady, almost musical, shushing sound. When he trudged back up, dragging the sled, he wasn't even winded—only pleased in a quiet way.
"Your turn." He presented the sled with an exaggerated bow, snowflakes catching in his hair. "Unless you'd prefer to admire my technique some more?"
"Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" I settled onto the wooden deck, gripping the steering rope.
The wood was smooth under my thighs, polished to silk by Ben's careful hands.
Memories of my childhood accident flickered in the corner of my mind—the loss of control, jarring impact, and blood on white snow.
Ben crouched beside me. His gloved hand covered mine on the rope. "Hey, you don't have to—"
"I want to." I looked into his eyes. "Just... stay close?"
"Always."
The first run started with a moment of pure terror as the sled tipped over the crest. I clenched the steering rope so tight my knuckles went white beneath the gloves. Then, everything changed. The wind stung my cheeks, and my childhood fear dissolved like my visible breath in the cold air.
The ancient sled sang beneath me—a low, steady hum mixed with the shush of runners cutting through powder. The sound drowned out all my doubts. Snow sprayed up around me, catching the winter sunlight, and I laughed as I barreled down the hill.
The wind rushed past my face, and somewhere between the top and middle of the hill, I began to sing. Not specific words—notes, pure and clear, cutting through the cold air. Part of "Silver Bells," maybe. I wasn't performing. It was instinctual.
When I reached the bottom, Ben stared at me with an expression I couldn't read.
"What?"
"You were singing." He said it like I'd done something impossible. "That was... Alex, that was beautiful."
Heat flooded my face. "It was a reflex—"
"That's why it was beautiful." He stepped closer. "I've never heard you sing. I mean, I heard you direct the kids, but that's teaching. This was different. This was you."
My second run was faster—more confident. I leaned into the turns, feeling the sled respond. The wind whipped past my ears with a rushing sound, and I whooped halfway down, pure exhilaration taking over.
Ben waited at the bottom, clapping his gloved hands together. "There you go! Did you feel how you leaned into that last turn?"
The third run, I caught air over a small bump. My stomach dropped, then the sled landed smoothly, and I kept going, laughing the whole way down.
Ben caught me at the bottom, steadying the sled with his boot. "Ready to try something new?"
"What did you have in mind?"
"Two-person run." He positioned the sled. "You sit in front, I'll handle the rope, if you trust my steering."
My pulse raced. "That sounds... complicated."
"Only if we overthink it." His voice dropped lower. "We've got this."
I settled onto the sled, and Ben climbed on behind me. The warmth of his chest against my back made it hard to think straight.
We fit together perfectly. His arms bracketed my sides as he gripped the steering rope.
"Ready?" His breath tickled my ear.
"Define ready."
Ben's laugh rumbled through both our bodies when he pushed off. The descent was faster with our combined weight—the runners hummed a lower note, and the wind rushed past louder than before.
I barely noticed the speed. Every nerve ending focused on our points of contact—his thighs pressed against mine, his solid chest behind me, and his breath warm against my neck. When we hit a small bump, his arm instinctively tightened around my waist, and I leaned back into him without thinking.
We reached the bottom too quickly. Neither of us moved to get up. The world had narrowed to the sound of our breathing—both slightly winded—and the weight of his hand still resting against my ribs.
"Again?" Ben asked.
I turned my head to answer and found his face inches from mine, pupils dilated, lips slightly parted.