Chapter 10
Holly
The chaos of the morning has me spiraling faster than a tornado. The three boys bound downstairs, their thumps echoing through the small cabin. Though I’m nice and warm under the heavy paisley quilt, when I sit up, I realize I have an awful crick in my neck. Ow.
“You’re up early!” Cliff hops onto the back of the sofa, his belly the pivot point, so his legs kick off the back, but his face is in my space.
“So are you,” I say, smiling, then wincing at the pain that shoots up my neck to my head.
“We’re going to build a snowman and make pancakes. Ready?”
“Am I ready? Um, sure. Give me ten minutes.”
And that is how I find myself wrapped up like a burrito in my snow gear, outside in a winter wonderland, building a snowman.
Now, all of that sounds magical, except my head pounds, I need coffee, and the amount of snow around us closes in on me mentally.
I never thought I was claustrophobic, but here I am, mentally freaking out by the huge drifts of snow.
Thankfully, the porch protected the cabin, so the door still opens.
But what if it keeps snowing? I don’t think there’s enough food here for the four of us if we’re stuck for more than another day or two.
Todd comes flying out of the house and flops into the snow, sinking down enough that I can’t see him.
The boys’ laughter breaks me out of my spiral just enough to breathe.
Cliff and Todd direct me in snowman base making.
Literally, all I can think about is the Meghan Trainor song, “All About that Bass,” as I roll the snow to make an extra large, extra round bottom of a snowman.
Their antics make me laugh, and I feel a bit lighter.
Relief floods me when the door opens and the scent of hot black coffee flutters around my nose. There on the porch is the perfect man, hugged in those damned Wrangler jeans, holding the gift of the gods—coffee.
It takes too long for me to trip my way through the snow to get back to the porch and receive my mug. “Thank you,” I say softly to him, not quite meeting his eyes, as the boys holler for me to come back and finish my job. Turning to them, I hold up the mug and yell, “Work break!”
Jack hollers beside me, “Hot cocoa inside! It’s in a thermos; take your time!
” They whoop in celebration and redouble their efforts to build the snowman without me.
The mug of coffee warms my hands through my mittens.
I keep my eyes focused on the building, not on the man I dry-humped last night.
He stands still beside me, sipping his own mug.
Eventually, the quiet thread between us becomes too much. “Um, about last night,” I start, but he holds up a hand to stop me.
“Good morning, Holly,” he says. “Last night was the most fun I’ve had in years.
But—” A snowball hits Jack square in the face.
The kids howl with laughter as his coffee splashes all over him and the snow.
He growls—and no, there is no quiver in my low belly at that—then sets his mug on the porch rail and roars a battle cry as he runs as best he can through the snow to tackle the kids.
Snowballs fly as I continue to down the elixir that I hope will jumpstart my brain to override all these feelings swirling around in me. The ‘but’ echoes in my mind. But what? But in the light of day, it’s a bad idea to do anything more? But I’m seeing someone? But my kids? Argh!
Cliff locks eyes on me, and his yell startles me.
“I need your help!” which gets garbled as he face plants in the snow.
I’m not part of this family, but we’re stuck together for now, and this is just the distraction I need.
Set my mug next to Jack’s, ignoring the image that they create of “his and hers,” I waddle my way back out, making snowballs and flinging them as I go.
Soon, I can’t breathe; I’m laughing so hard. Cliff and I work our best against Todd and Jack. Snow flies all around us—all from us. The snowman sits, watching silently, or would if he had eyes. Todd tackles Cliff. And then, oomph, I’m knocked onto my back, sinking into the fluffy snow.
Jack tackled me. His weight on me feels so good. I’m laughing. He’s laughing. The kids are a nonstop mix of laughs and hollers.
For a minute, everything stills. His gaze sharpens, deepening the creases in the corners of his eyes. Despite my assumptions about what was going to come after the ‘but,’ I try to send pleading ‘kiss me!’ vibes through my look.
Jack licks his lips. Gods, yes. He leans in close; I can smell peppermint and coffee and that sandalwood man scent that he has.
This moment steals my breath, and not for laughing.
The sounds of the snowball fight fade away.
The coldness of the snow melts away, leaving me feeling too hot in my many layers. Everything is slow and sparkly.
His nose is mere millimeters from mine. Opening my lips, just a little, ready to welcome him in, I clench my thighs together as my center throbs—knowing he can provide the relief I want.
But I’m left wanting. A giant snowball lands on our faces, shocking me back into reality. Gasping, I inhale snow, then cough in his face, even as Jack’s laughing and cursing under his breath at the same time.
He leaps up and away from me to attack Cliff and Todd.
I hear what sounds like, “Raincheck,” under his breath, but I’m not sure.
Without his rugged, sharp, scruffy jawline in my sight, I see snow-frosted evergreens.
And blue. The clouds have parted; the heavy gray of just an hour ago seems to be clearing.
Hopefully, this promise of blue skies holds up, delivering a clear night sky for the main event tonight.
Remember, Holly, you’re here for the comet, for science.
Not for the ranch hand. Definitely not for orgasms.
Struggling, I make my way back to standing, but my heart isn’t in the game anymore. For a brief moment in time, I could picture this being my everyday life—being a unit of four, permanently.
But the snowball feels like a comet smacking me back into my goals and dreams. A family isn’t in the cards for me. My career is. I wave off Cliff’s plaintive pleas for help, shouting, “Too cold!” as I shuffle back toward the protection and quiet of the cabin. I need to get back to work and focus.
The rest of the morning and afternoon pass with me hiding in my room, working.
There’s a knock when the boys have made lunch.
I eat, silently grateful that Jack runs the generator to ensure the fridge stays cold and the well bladder is full.
I send a thank you to the Kringle Comet that Jack doesn’t eat with us.
Again, a while later, another knock, with an invitation to play Monopoly.
I decline the game. I can’t possibly sit across from Jack for that long without melting from desire.
“Working,” is a generous word for today. Having this cabin to myself for the weekend, I intended to finish a paper I’ve been working on. Start a grant proposal for next year. And get a jump start on what I want to publish about the Kringle Comet.
As I stare at my laptop and the notebook beside it, I have pity for past Holly with the high ambitions.
She had no idea she’d be waylaid by a snowstorm and a mountain man with impeccable muscles and a kiss that makes my toes curl in delight.
My hypothesis last night about kissing him to get him out of my system was dead wrong.
My new hypothesis is to avoid him, but after many hours of having the memory of his callused hands on my breasts come back to me, along with his gruff voice in my head calling me a good girl, I pronounce that idea dead, too.
Eventually, after pacing the small bedroom and giving myself a pep-talk, I’m ready to really work.
The blank screen has been hurting my brain, and my brain—ever looking out for my survival—sends me movie reels of Jack and me last night before the fire.
So instead of just staring at the screen, I free-write, allowing myself to fill the page with whatever flies out of my fingers.
I tell myself it will get the creative juices flowing.
After twenty minutes, I look at the words on the screen, and sigh at the third paragraph, where I outline how to split my time between work and this dumb man up here on Mt. Frost.
I am so screwed. Well, I’d like to be. That admission causes a groan to escape from me.
And that’s when someone else knocks at the bedroom door, making my insides flutter, hoping it’s a grumpy ranch hand on the other side.
Nope. It’s just Todd and Cliff inviting me out for dinner. “We even lit candles!” Cliff says, bouncing on his toes. A candlelit dinner with Jack is absolutely what I want, and the last thing I need.