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“Fine, as long as I get mine.”
Laughing, she went to get their coats while he topped off her wine.
Tic, alerted by the coats, stirred from his snooze to race to Sloan, race back to Nash as he pulled out another beer, then back to Sloan. All the while yipping with joy. When Sloan opened the door, he flew out, a tail-wagging arrow from the bow.
Since they went out the back, Nash took stock.
“You could have a decent patio here.”
“Mudroom first.”
“Right, mudroom.”
While the dog ran off his after-snooze energy, Nash wandered around the side of the house with Sloan.
“I could do about sixty-four square feet if I go for stackables for the laundry. Just enough room for that, a small counter for folding, drying rod above, cabinet below for supplies. A bench on the other side, with boot/shoe storage under and coat hooks above.”
“It’s a good plan. Better one is to have a carport beside it. Door there.” He gestured. “You pull under out of the weather, go straight into your drop zone, and through there to the kitchen.”
“I thought of that, but it means curving the driveway around to it.”
“Better than tromping through the snow or the rain or whatever to get to the side door. And your driveway’s crap anyway.”
“It’s crap anyway.” She watched Tic roll around in the snow. “He gets that from Mop. He’s a good dog, Nash. A sweet-natured, playful people pleaser.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you reached for your ball-peen hammer and found him chewing on the handle.”
“Yes, I would.”
She took his hand as they circled her cottage on a cold, clear, star-strewn night where the three-quarter moon sailed as white as the snow under their feet.
When he turned her, kissed her under that moon, those stars, she admitted she hadn’t known how to answer his question. What was she looking for?
But in that moment, it seemed she’d found it.
PART THREELIFE
While we live, let us live.
—Medieval Latin phrase
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
An early riser, Sloan started to roll out of bed before the sun tipped above the eastern peaks.
Nash reached out, pulled her back.
“Saturday morning follows Friday night.”
“You know, I’ve noticed that.”
“In life, barring emergencies, it’s a good rule to stay in bed on Saturday mornings until the sun’s up.”
“I see your point.” Especially since they were both naked. “But what if you lived in, say, Alaska, in an area where in the winter it’s dark for weeks? Or alternately,” she continued as his teeth scraped lightly over the side of her throat, “in the summer when it’s light for weeks.”
“Overthinking.”
He rolled on top of her, and in the dark, found her lips with his.