Snow Angel: A Winter Romance

by Lush, Tamara

  He’s definitely interested. If there’s one thing I know, it’s guys. I know when they look you in the eye like that, all serious-like, then they’re interested.

  Not that a guy’s looked at me at all recently. My relationships in recent months haven’t gone past the dating app-texting phase. Well, that and the occasional mutual grope at a party. Truth be told, I’ve been in a bit of a dry spell since junior year.

  “There’s also snowshoes here. I found them in the garage. We could do that if you have boots.”

  Record scratch noise. He’s talking about snowshoes when he should be crawling up here next to me? To kiss me breathless, like he did six years ago?

  What. The. Eff?

  “Yeah, we could.” Snowshoeing is probably the least sexy thing two people can do. An image of us tromping through the woods comes to mind. I’m not exactly the most coordinated athlete. I’ll probably tumble down a ravine or fall into a snow bank.

  Oliver stands and stretches. “Guess I’ll go to bed.”

  I almost groan in frustration. Haven’t I been sending enough hints? Flirting with him? Touching his hair? Am I that repulsive? He must just think of me like a sister. Surely that’s it.

  This is my cue to pout. I stick out my lower lip. I’m not proud of this. But I do. “After that movie I kind of don’t want to sleep upstairs alone. I think I’d rather be down here.”

  He glances down at me. “You’re scared?”

  “A little.” It doesn’t take much to get my imagination working. The snow and the big, empty cabin does seem vaguely menacing. Okay, I’m playing it up. A lot.

  “I’ll sleep on the sofa here with you.”

  That makes me chuckle. “You don’t have to.”

  “Nah, this is a comfy couch. And it’s plenty big. I’ll go find a pillow and a blanket. You okay being alone here for a few minutes?”

  “Ha. Funny. I think so. Hopefully you’ll hear my screams if a serial killer breaks in.”

  While he finds a pillow, I slip into the downstairs bathroom and crack open the trial size of mouthwash arranged alongside bottles of shampoo and conditioner. I gargle a mouthful, smooth my hair, and take off my scarf. I think about changing into my pajamas, but that would involve going upstairs. It’d probably kill the spontaneity of our sleepover.

  I remember my mom’s plea for condoms, and I calculate that if we hook up tonight, I’ll have to race upstairs to get one. Or, he probably has some in his room. Duh. He’s a twenty-three-year-old grad student in Boston. Of course, he has condoms.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, Oliver’s on the sofa, setting his pillow near mine. He’s not lying next to me, but at an angle. Close enough. I can work with this.

  I notice his eyes drift to my legs.

  “Want me to shut this out?” I pause at the light switch.

  “Sure.”

  “Let’s keep the fire and the tree on.”

  “’Kay.”

  I flick the overhead lamp off, and the large room suddenly becomes small and cozy in the light of the fire. It’s so romantic that I want to squee.

  “You know what made that movie so scary? It was about isolation. And y’know. We’re in this cabin, in the middle of Snowmageddon.” I nestle into the sofa and wrap myself in the blanket.

  “I promise not to let anything happen to you, ‘kay?” His laugh is a low rumble, and I can tell he’s sleepy because he’s pronouncing his words slowly.

  “Appreciate it.”

  Lying there in the silence for many long minutes, a familiar feeling washes over me.

  “Remember when we’d have sleepovers as kids?”

  “Mmm.” Why does his voice have to sound so growly and hot here in the semidarkness?

  “Yeah. In your big house.”

  A memory, of us, playing tag at Oliver’s. I was probably five, so he was seven. I cornered him in a sunroom. Screaming with laughter, I grabbed him.

  And kissed him on the cheek.

  My mom saw the whole thing, and later that day pulled me aside and told me to respect people’s personal space. I informed her that Oliver wanted to be kissed and that I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I grin in the darkness at the memory.

  I’m about to ask him if he remembers that day, but I hear a little snore escape his lips.

  Funny thing is, I’m not disappointed. Not even a little. As much as I want him to rip off my clothes, this is pretty damned good right now. Feelings of comfort and security allow me to drift off, far happier than when I’d arrived.

  Chapter 6

  OLIVER

  For a fraction of a second when I wake, I’m not sure where I am. It’s not my apartment in Boston. Not my bedroom in my childhood home in St. Augustine. I turn my head and blink at a bouquet that's bursting with red and pink flowers even in the gray morning light filtering through a bank of windows. My eyes go to the stone fireplace. There’s no fire, which means the gas is probably on some sort of timer.

  The cabin. Vermont.

  As I sit up, I remember everything. Charlotte. A rush of happiness fills my chest.

  There she is, sleeping on the other part of the sofa. She’s wrapped in her red blanket like a burrito, her angelic face peeking out. I’d like to sit here for a while and watch her sleep, but that would be creepy. So I tiptoe out.

  A shower and coffee make me feel human. But, damn. Last night. I’d had my chance and screwed things up with her again.

  It had been my chance to finally tell her how I feel, and I failed. And now our parents are probably coming in today, which will make it a thousand times more difficult to talk with her. Especially if something’s wrong with her mom.

  Maybe this isn’t the time to tell her at all. I could wait. Make plans to come see her in Vermont in a month or two. Or invite her to my place. Tell her I’d like to take her to a concert. I’m sure I can find something she’d like.

  She hinted that she’d come to Boston. Hell, I’ve waited five years for her. What’s another couple of months?

  I’m about to take a sip of my coffee when my phone buzzes. I pick up.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Oliver. How’s the cabin? The conditions on the mountain?”

  “The mountain’s sick. Conditions are perfect. I snowboarded all day yesterday. Sore as hell.” I groan. “And the cabin’s sweet, too. Charlotte came in last night.”

  Dad makes a humming noise. “I see.”

  “We had pizza, drank a couple of beers. watched a movie.” I try to sound casual. “We’re thinking about snowshoeing today. When are you and mom getting in?”

  “Doesn’t look like today, son. Everything’s shut down because of this storm. All up and down the East Coast. Your mother and I are with Emma and Caleb, having breakfast by the pool. I’ll let you know as soon as we can take off. I wanted you to know that we might not get there until tomorrow. Maybe even the day after. Things are a mess. Not the way your mother and I wanted to spend this vacation.”

  I grin into the phone. Another day alone with Charlotte. Or two.

  “That’s okay, Dad. I understand.” My heart rate’s kicked up.

  “Son, you got everything under control there? You and Charlotte?”

  He knows how I felt about Charlotte when we were teenagers. He’d interrupted us kissing, and the next day, as he moved me into my dorm, gave me a stern lecture about not breaking her heart. Our families were friends, he’d said. Business partners.

  Don’t poison the well with your teenage lust.

  Don’t start something you won’t be able to finish.

  There are lots of women in college who are your age. A more appropriate age.

  I listened to him and stayed away, figuring that I was in New York at university, and she was still in high school. She was too young, I told myself in those months after the kiss.

  “All under control.”

  “Good to hear. Your mother says hello. Talk soon, son.”

  We hang up. Maybe things have changed. Charlotte and I are older. Sh
e probably has a boyfriend. Or dozens of guys wanting to be with her.

  I need to find out once and for all. My feelings for her haven’t changed. If anything, they’ve come roaring back, more powerful than ever.

  It’s time to finish what I’d started all those years ago.

  * * *

  CHARLOTTE

  “Thanks for making this. There’s nothing like waking up to the smell of coffee. I’m impressed.”

  I watch Oliver pouring the life-saving liquid into a mug. He’s made more than enough for both of us. I like how considerate he is. Every time I’ve ever spent the night with a guy, he’s barely mustered a goodbye kiss, never mind coffee.

  “Aw, I’m sure you have guys lining up to make you coffee in the morning.”

  Oliver grins and hands me the mug. I wrap both hands around it and smirk. “Yeah, right.”

  “You have a boyfriend?”

  “Nope.”

  He nods and takes a sip of his coffee. For a moment, he looks so adult. He must have shaved early this morning, because his face is stubble-free. It somehow makes him look older. Like he’s ready to head to the office and do a million-dollar deal. It’s something in the way his smooth jaw is set, the way he seems so in control.

  “I’m going to turn up the heat. It’s kinda cold in here, right?”

  I murmur a yes, and he walks out. The cabin is chilly this morning, and a brief fantasy flits through my mind of getting in bed under a thick comforter and watching movies.

  With Oliver.

  Naked.

  I’ve never really lounged liked that with a guy. It’s a fantasy, being all cozy and nude, while snow falls. Reading books. Drinking coffee spiked with Baileys.

  The sound of the heat clunking to life fills the house. Oliver’s back in the kitchen, seemingly taking up a lot of space with his broad shoulders. This morning, he’s wearing a black Henley. Jesus. His chest looks like a wall of stone. What would it feel like to run my hands over those muscles? To rub my face on his, purring, as if I were a cat against a sofa leg?

  “What do you want to do today?”

  I look at him, alarmed. Can he read my mind? His dark eyes study my face.

  “Oh. Uh. You know. We could ski. Or snowboard. Go to the lodge and drink cocoa. You feel like doing that?”

  “I’m a little sore today after yesterday. Cocoa sounds good. I’d like something a little more low impact.”

  Like a massage in bed?

  I hold my mug and look at the ceiling. “I’m thinking.”

  About us in bed.

  “We could snowshoe.”

  A soft sigh escapes my lips. “Yeah, you mentioned it last night.”

  Why is he so intent on snowshoeing? I guess we have to leave the house sometime, and we’ll work up a sweat while trudging through the snow. I imagine a sheen of perspiration over his bronze skin. “I could be into that. I’m game for trying anything once.”

  “Cool. Cool.”

  He stretches his glorious arms overhead. The hem of his shirt rides up. I peek over the rim of my mug because I’m incorrigible. His stomach is all muscle, his sweatpants are low-slung, and there’s a trail of dark, downy hair from his bellybutton to…

  “Well, I’m going to get ready. Thirty minutes?”

  I stare into my coffee, blowing on it as if it’s the temperature of molten lava. “Absolutely.”

  He starts to walk out, and I sneak a glance at his butt.

  When he turns around, I mutter something about a piece of lint in my coffee, and stick my index finger in the hot liquid.

  “Oh,” he says, hitting me with a killer, I-know-what-you-were-staring-at grin. “I heard from my dad. Doesn’t look like our parents will be here today.”

  Mom. My stomach drops. Then I think about her hopeful, mischievous voice when she told me that Oliver’s always adored me.

  “Oh well,” I say, locking eyes with him as I shake my dripping wet finger to dry. “I’m sure we’ll figure out a way to entertain ourselves.”

  Chapter 7

  CHARLOTTE

  To say that snowshoeing is difficult is the lie of the year.

  It’s possible that my thigh muscles might turn to barely set Jell-O before this day is over. I shuffle to a stop and stab my poles into the snow, which is getting deeper by the hour, it seems. At least I can stand up on these things. That’s my one victory. I’d had my doubts.

  We’re at a fork in the trail. Fat, fluffy snowflakes are coming down softly, and everything around us is white. Trees. Trail. My snowsuit.

  I look down at my snow-crusted boots that are strapped into the aluminum snowshoes. They’re surprisingly light for things that look like oblong tennis rackets. Oliver steps to my side.

  “We’re not going to get lost, are we?” I ask, worriedly.

  “No, see the little red marks on the trees?” He gestures in a fluid motion with one of his poles.

  “Okay, good. Are you sure you don’t want me to go behind you? You’re probably much faster. And I’m worried you’re going to get close, and I’ll stab you in the face with my poles.”

  “No. I don’t want to lose you. So you go in front. I’ll stay away from your poles.”

  “Okay. I just don’t want to hold you back. I know I’m slow.”

  “This isn’t a race. You’re doing great.”

  I grin, warming at his compliment. Sports have always been a sore subject for me. I’d rather read a book. “Thanks. You don’t have to say that.”

  “No. You really are. You thought you’d fall. You haven’t. You’re moving at a nice clip.”

  It’s true. I seemed to have more control than I imagined on these things. Even though I feel like Bigfoot. A lady Bigfoot in a white snow jumpsuit with a pink pom-pom hat.

  “Okay. Oh, I see the sign for the ski lodge. I’ll go that way.”

  I waddle off. Oliver’s wearing perfectly-fitting black snow pants and a red plaid coat, like a Vermonter. I wonder if he owns it or bought it for this trip or found it at the cabin. The coat accentuates the broadness of his shoulders. Makes him look like a lumberjack. A sexy Cuban lumberjack. Are there Cuban lumberjacks? As I tromp down the trail, I imagine us living together in Vermont, him chopping wood. Getting sweaty. Taking off that coat.

  Growing a thick, dark, beard. Yum.

  This is ridiculous, the way I’m lusting after him. How I’m being coy. I’m not normally this way around guys. When I see a guy I want at a party, I go up to him. If I’m interested in someone online, I message them. If I want to sleep with someone, I do. No strings. No complications. It’s sport.

  But it doesn’t feel like a game with Oliver. Why am I shyest with the man I’ve known the longest? It makes no sense. Maybe because he kissed me and forgot me. Something that seemed—hell, still seems—so out of character. And a little humiliating.

  The longer we walk, the more I turn that kiss over in my mind. We were on a beach boardwalk that night of his party, and I was in a bikini. He was in swim trunks and shirtless. Thin and tan and boyish. There was a full moon and a humid, hot breeze. We were walking back to his house after a bonfire on the beach. I’d been uncharacteristically quiet around him that night, acutely aware that he hadn’t taken his eyes off me all night.

  The backs of our hands had brushed against one another as we walked. And then just like that, he stopped, turned to me, and took my face in his hands. He kissed me, hard and hot. Stole the breath from my lungs and the thoughts from my head.

  It was the most perfect kiss I’ve ever had.

  Crunch, crunch, crunch. My snowshoes mash the snow with every labored step.

  I’m going to ask him why he never talked to me after that. I’ve got to.

  We’ve come to a thick grove of trees, shrouded in snow. There’s a wide patch of fresh snow to one side, and because I see the top of a bench, I figure I won’t fall into a ravine. So I pull over. With exaggerated leg movements, I twist my body around so I’m facing Oliver. He stops, about ten feet behind me.
r />   “Hey. You okay?” He peers at me in concern.

  I’m panting. He’s not. “Yeah. Well, no.”

  He moves closer, but out of range of my poles. “We’re not far from the lodge. But we can rest for a while. Want a granola bar? I brought one for you.”

  “Why didn’t you ever call or write or text after you kissed me?”

  He gently sticks his poles into the snow. Then he licks his lips. I spy his eyes going to the top of my head.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Your hat.”

  “Did you hear my question?”

  “Yeah. I did.”

  “So why are you looking at my hat?”

  “It’s…cute. You’re cute in it. You look like a cat or something.”

  I frown. “Cats wear pink pom-poms?”

  He shrugs and chews on his full bottom lip. Obviously, I’m making him nervous.

  “Back to the kiss. It’s been on my mind since I got here. You don’t have to answer. Maybe you don’t remember. But I do.”

  I pick up my leg, wanting just to get to the lodge so I can slip into the bathroom and away from him. So I can escape from the shame and embarrassment. Our kiss meant nothing to him. All these years I’d held it as a special moment in my heart. The back of my throat thickens.

  “Wait,” he says sharply.

  I tamp my foot down and glance at him.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not good at this.”

  “Not good at what?” I shuffle a couple of feet toward him so the tops of our snowshoes are touching.

  “Talking about this stuff. Women. Relationships.”

  “You don’t have a girlfriend?”

  He laughs. “No. I do not have a girlfriend.”

  A snowflake lands in my right eye and I rub it with my mitten. Crap, it burns. I blink several times. It’s searing from the sunscreen I’d slathered on. I look at him through my left eye while squinting the other. Oliver clears his throat. My question has obviously made him nervous. Or I look like a pirate.

  I force my eye open, and now I probably look like I’m crying. I feel like crying.

  “Sharkie, I kissed you at my going away party because I wanted to. Badly. Had wanted to for a long time. And I felt horrible about it.”