Snow drifts from the sky as if it’s totally on board with our snowman building plans. Of course it is.
Maise sits at the kitchen counter as I pour out hot cocoa to warm ourselves with before we brave the frosty outdoors. The front door slams, and I assume it’s Quinton.
Heavy footfalls tell me my assumption was spot-on. He rounds the doorway and crosses the checkered tile to drop onto a stool by his daughter.
“You forgot your beanie, Maise.”
Tugging it over her head, he gives me the brightest smile as the beanie covers her eyes.
She’s batting his hands away a second later, and I return the smile before Maisey’s eyes emerge from the woolen shroud.
“Morning, Celeste,” Quinton rasps.
I pull out an extra cup and slide two full mugs over the counter before pouring my own. The cupboard overhead has marshmallows and powdered sugar, so I grab them, and we douse our drinks in the sugary nonsense.
“Thought I heard someone come in,” Dad says, sliding onto a stool on the other side of Maisey.
Gang’s all here.
Maisey turns to my father. “We’re building a snowman. Did you want to help?”
“Sounds like fun, little miss. Count me in.” His hands come to rest on the counter with a slight tremble. An early warning sign of a not-so-great day. Maybe some sunshine will help.
“You know what, I think that’s a great idea.” I pass Dad a mug of hot cocoa.
“Thanks, love.” He takes a sip, wincing when the liquid burns.
Shit.
“Careful, Hank. It might need more milk.”
He slides it back over and I add a little extra to cool it down.
Maisey looks sheepish. “But I guess it’s not just us girls, then.”
“One more couldn’t hurt, could it?” I ask her.
“Suppose not.” She swirls a finger in her drink, bumping the marshmallows against the side of the mug.
Dad slides his mug back to me, shaking his head. “Come on, young lass. Let’s get started.”
He stands and brushes down his clothes. I take a beat to check he’s warm enough before adding, “Don’t forget your coats.”
Dad simply nods, and Maisey takes his hand as they walk into the hall. Maisey doesn’t give him a second before she’s quizzing his snowman-making skills in great detail.
“You think he’ll have a good day?” Quinton asks.
“Not sure. He has a bit of a tremor. Hopefully some fresh air will help.”
It takes me a moment to realize what he’s really asking—is Maisey safe with my father today? And it’s a valid question with a valid reason behind it.
“They should be okay for a few minutes. Did you have something in mind?”
He’s off the stool and crowding me against the counter in the space of a heartbeat. In a tangle of sandalwood and spice, his hands wrap around my neck and weave into my hair.
“You could say that,” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
My brain is short-circuiting, and I know I have something to tide us over for a little while, but I can’t think straight with his hands on me. I?—
