Page 35 of Snowbound

Forhours.

And oh my god—it feels good.

Sexdoesmake me write better.

I just don’t always know how to reach that space, not when I’m distracted and hurt and confused. But now?

The words come fast.

My body is loose, and my mind is awake in a way it hasn’t been in months.

I glance at the word count. He said 3,000.

I’m at 2,998.

Heh.

I double-check, then grin—shutting the laptop with a snap.

I lie in bed, my heart pounding in my chest like it wants out. For some reason, I drag myself right back to that memory—being a teenager again. That one weekend when our parents went away. Just Owen and me, alone in the house. The night I got in trouble with him.

Six years ago…

My mother had givenme one of her signature withering looks right before she left, the kind that burned into your memory. “Behave yourself,” she’d snarled at me, half a threat, half a warning. “If you try anything—so help me?—”

“Oh my god, Mom, stop.” I groaned, already humiliated before the door even closedbehind her.

It wasn’t like I was a problem child. I never got into trouble. Never snuck out, never did anything wrong. What did she think I was gonna do? Jump Owen the second she pulled out of the driveway? God. He barely even noticed I existed. He didn’t look at me like that.

It was ridiculous and humiliating.

“Go. Have fun, I’m fine,” I said to her, avoiding her eyes.

But she wouldn’t let it go. “I’m telling you right now, Emma?—”

“And I’m telling you,” I snapped, sharper than I meant to be, “it’ll be fine. Just leave already. God.”

I was kind of a little shit when I was a teen.

I slammed the door in her face—not my proudest moment.

“Is that how you talk to your mother?” I swiveled my head around to see Owen standing in the hallway. He’d heard every word.

I swallowed and didn’t reply. I couldn’t.

He only shook his head at me. “You’d better think twice about behaving like that when I’m in charge. You’re goddamn lucky you’re not mine.”

His brows knit together as he walked past me, his scent—some kind of snow-capped mountain aftershave—made my legs wobble. Oh god. What was that supposed to mean? And why did it make me want to be his?

But I knew exactly why Mom was warning me.

She’d seen it. She’d seen the book. My notebook. My stupid, private thoughts.

She knew I had a crush on Owen.

What did she think we were going to do though?

That first night, we made pizza together. Just the two of us. It was easy, fun… the kind of night that makes you forget how complicated everything else is. He added oregano and some weird blend of spices, and I watched him, completely captivated. He rolled his eyes at me and showed me how to sprinkle the cheese the “right” way. We layered sauce, pepperoni, and shredded cheese onto flatbreads. I remember feeling so weirdly content and so stupidly nervous.