Page 18 of Snowbound

Outside, the sun beats down on the snow-covered branches of the tree she decorated. It’s pretty and whimsical, like her.

“Me too,” she admits softly. “I’ve replayed it in my mind so many times.”

“Have you?” I ask, curious.

She nods. “Yes.”

“Do you remember the first book you wrote?” I ask with a wry smile.

“Oh my god.” She groans, burying her face in her hands. “Don’t remind me. So embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” I shake my head. “’Twas fuckin’ brilliant.”

“You were the only one who thought so… but thank you,” she says, laughing.

We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, like the years between us never happened.

“Are you hungry?” I finally ask her. “I stocked the fridge earlier. Food’s not easy to get around here.”

“I am,” she says. “Iknewthat handwriting was familiar.”

She recognized my handwriting. My chest fucking aches.

She starts to rise from the couch, but I wave her down. “No, you stay there. I’ve got this.”

I head to the fridge, glancing over my shoulder.

“How close have you been watching me?” she asks softly.

“Close enough,” I say, not giving anything away.

I grab the sourdough, thick-sliced, and toast it just right—crisp on the outside, warm and chewy in the center. I layer onroasted turkey breast, sharp cheddar, a swipe of grainy mustard, and just a touch of aioli. Then I cut it in half and open a bag of kettle-cooked chips.

We share it on the couch, plates balanced between us.

“This is delicious,” she says with a smile.

“Glad you like it.”

Then I ask, “So youdoyou remember that night?”

“Of course. Do you remember what you toldme?”

She gives me a look, playful but layered. “I may or may not.”

“Do you or do you not?” I quirk a brow at her.

“I seem to remember saying something about not wanting another man to control me,” she says, giving a sheepish grin. “I remember saying something about not being a broken girl who needed to be rescued.”

“Mmm.” I smile. “That’s exactly what you said.”

We fall into a long, silent stretch again.

She eats her sandwich quietly, thoughtfully, and I do the same.

“What are you up to now?” she asks. “What do you do for work?”

Why this question? I can’t tell her. If I told her the truth…