Page 48 of The Christmas Arrangement

“It’s snowing!” He dumps the wood beside the hearth.

“It’s December in Vermont, Dash. It’s always snowing.”

“Not like this. Come see.” He pulls me to my feet and tosses my parka at me.

I put on the coat and my boots and follow him outside. He’s right; this isn’t regular snow. It’s the kind of snowfall you see in the movies. Fat flakes tumble from the sky. Falling rapidly, they blanket the ground in pristine white.

I bend down and scoop up a handful. I pack it loosely. “Have you ever had a snowball fight?”

“In Southern California? Uh, no.”

I lob my snowball gently. It hits his shoulder.

“I see how it is,” he says, dusting the snow from his shoulder and forming a snowball of his own. He throws it like it’s a football. It smacks me directly in the face, then explodes, sending snow cascading down my shoulder.

The cold stings my skin, and I stand there, stunned for a moment.

He runs over. “I’m so sorry. I was aiming for your shoulder, I swear. Are you okay?”

He reaches out and gently brushes the snow from my face. His fingers are warm on my frozen cheeks. His dark eyes search mine, worried. A cloud of warm air leaves his mouth each time he breathes. He’s so close I can feel his breath on my lips.

Too close.

I grab a handful of the snow from my coat sleeve and shove it down the back of his collar.

He yelps, and I’m already running, squealing, slipping in the snow as I race toward the cottage. His footsteps pound behind me, closer, closer?—

I make it to the porch steps just as his arm wraps around my waist, spinning me around. We’re both laughing, both breathless, both covered in snow. His arm still encircles me. I press my palm against his chest and feel the rapid beat of his heart. Snow swirls around us.

The cold air is charged with electricity, possibility. Neither of us moves.

Finally, I shiver and pull away, heading back inside before I say or do something I can’t take back.

“Mind if I take a hot shower?” he rasps.

I don’t trust myself to talk, so I shake my head. He heads into the bathroom, and I trade my wet clothes for cozy pajama bottoms and soft tee. While he showers, I make the bread. I definitely do not think about him naked, just feet away, as I shape the dough into a round loaf, score it, and slide it into the preheated oven. Not at all.

He returns to the kitchen wearing dry clothes, his hair damp and his face flushed from the heat of the shower, just as the timer goes off. The bread is perfect, golden-brown and crusty. The soup is fragrant and ready. We ladle the soup into bowls, slice the bread, and refill our glasses.

We eat at the island.

“We made this,” Dash says, amazed. “And it’s good.”

“It really is.” I tear off a piece of bread and pop it into. “You’re a natural.”

“I had a good teacher.”

After we eat, we clean up together—him washing, me drying, moving around each other like dancers. By unspoken agreement we head back to the living room with the wine.

“Movie?” I suggest. “Miracle on 34th Street is on.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“How is that possible? It’s a classic.”

“Let’s do it.”

We settle on the couch. The flames in the fireplace dance, casting shadows on the wall. The drawn Roman shade cocoons us in privacy. I pull a warm blanket down from the back of the couch and drape it over us as the movie starts.