When I reappeared in designer rain boots and a delicate cashmere scarf, Ben pressed his lips together. His shoulders shook slightly.
"Those are from SoHo," I said defensively.
"They're lovely. For the city." He jerked his thumb toward the house. "Check the entry cabinet—third drawer for a real scarf, and there should be snow boots in the closet by the kitchen."
"You seem very familiar with my grandmother's organizational system."
"She kept spare gear for half the town." His voice softened, the teasing edge vanishing. "Always prepared for someone who needed help staying warm."
I found everything where he said it was, including fleece-lined work gloves that had clearly seen bitter winter weather. When I returned properly equipped, Ben reached out and adjusted the wool scarf around my neck. His fingers lingered against my collar.
"There. Now you won't freeze to death on my watch."
"Your concern is touching."
"Someone has to look out for the town's temporary Santa." His thumb brushed my collar. "Can't have you getting frostbite before you've even won over the rest of the kids. Sophie would never forgive me."
The mention of the trust those children had placed in me at rehearsal made a knot form in my chest in a good way. To cover the surge of emotion, I gestured at the sled. "Shouldn't we test your perfect restoration job before the snow melts?"
He stepped back and smiled. "Now that you're properly equipped for actual winter activities."
We trudged through snowdrifts toward the edge of town. The sled's runners left twin tracks behind us, clean lines bisecting the unbroken white. Our boots crunched through the powder with each step, and occasionally the wind would gust, sending snow crystals skittering across the surface with a sound like scattered rice.
Ben kept pausing to examine how cleanly the runners cut through the powder. Each time he crouched to study the trail, his whole body leaned into the inspection—shoulders forward, head tilted, fingers tracing the edges.
"You really love this stuff, don't you?" I watched him brush powder from the runners with careful fingers, his brow furrowed in concentration. "It's always fun to see you get excited about how things work."
He shouldered the sled. Snow cascaded off its deck with a whisper. "Like how I feel when you're giving Jack meticulous instructions on shoulder alignment?"
"That's different. That's just technical—"
"Just technical?" Ben stopped walking. "I've watched you demonstrate the same move fifty times until he got it right. Your whole face changes when you're teaching—you forget to guard yourself."
Before I could respond, we crested a slight rise, and the sledding hill spread out before us. Fresh snow blanketed its surface, unmarred by other tracks. A few crows called from the trees at the hill's edge, their caws sharp in the winter air.
"Nobody else is here?"
"One of the benefits of knowing the local spots." Ben set the sled down carefully. "This used to be the best hill in town, but everyone forgot about it when they built the new park closer to downtown."
I eyed the slope's steep angle, unconsciously touching the small scar under my eye. The raised tissue was cold beneath my fingertip. Ben noticed immediately.
"We can start halfway down. There's no pressure to—"
"No." I squared my shoulders. "I'm not letting an old scar dictate my winter fun. Still, a demonstration of proper technique wouldn't hurt."
His face lit up. He straightened, eyes brightening. "Proper technique involves optimal weight distribution and—" He saw my expression and rubbed the back of his neck. "And I'm doing it again, aren't I?"
"It's endearing."
Color rose in Ben's face. He covered by positioning the sled at the hill's crest, explaining the finer points of steering while I found myself watching the sure movements of his hands more than following the instructions. His fingers demonstrated the proper grip, and I remembered how those same hands had cradled my jaw last night.
His first run down the hill was effortless. The antique sled responded to subtle weight shifts, cutting clean arcs through the snow. The runners made a steady, almost musical, shushing sound. When he trudged back up, dragging the sled, he wasn't even winded—only pleased in a quiet way.
"Your turn." He presented the sled with an exaggerated bow, snowflakes catching in his hair. "Unless you'd prefer to admire my technique some more?"
"Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" I settled onto the wooden deck, gripping the steering rope. The wood was smooth under my thighs, polished to silk by Ben's careful hands. Memories of my childhood accident flickered in the corner of my mind—the loss of control, jarring impact, and blood on white snow.
Ben crouched beside me. His gloved hand covered mine on the rope. "Hey, you don't have to—"
