First, we do a quick scavenger hunt and find every candle in the house—most of which I impulsively bought on one of our many trips to HomeGoods because the jars were pretty. I guessMiles’s insistence on my adding touches to our place is paying off. We find a lighter in the junk drawer and start lighting the candles. When we’re finished, the entire kitchen and living room area is aglow with candlelight.
Miles pulls a tower of blankets out of the linen closet and places them on the ottoman in front of the sofa.
“We won’t be cold with all these,” he says.
The storm is still there, thrashing at the windows, but the little gold flames make a stubborn circle of warmth. We peel off our wet things and exchange them for sweats. He hands me a sweatshirt—one of his, because mine are somewhere in the dryer that won’t be turning on tonight. It smells like laundry soap and him.
“All better?” He tugs the collar of my borrowed hoodie.
“Much better,” I say, my voice shaking with a small shiver.
He notices. “Sit.”
I do as instructed, and he covers me with one blanket after the other before climbing beneath the mountain of blankets and sitting beside me.
“Come here.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders.
I hesitate a beat, but then I lean in. His body heat is immediate, and I scoot in closer.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod into his shoulder. “You’re a furnace.”
“High-performance model.” His voice is playful, but low. In the candlelight, his profile is all warm lines—the strong nose, the ridiculous lashes, the curve of his mouth that looks permanently ready to smile. I am not looking at his mouth. I am absolutely, definitely not?—
He clears his throat. “See, I told you. We’re great.”
“Okay, yes. But is this what we do for the foreseeable future? Just sit here huddled together under a blanket?” Amusement lines my voice.
“Pretty much.”
“Well, okay, then…” I chuckle.
“I mean, we can talk, you could read a book by candlelight, or we can play a game.”
I nod. “I guess it doesn’t sound too bad. What about food?”
“We have a pantry full of random stuff we can eat.”
“Yeah, we do. I guess this is going to be an adventure.”
He proposes Twenty Questions. I counter with This or That. We decide to play both. The one thing we have is time.
“Okay, starting with an easy one,” he says, settling deeper under the blankets. “This or that: summer or winter?”
“Summer,” I answer quickly. “I like to feel my fingers.”
“Figured.” He wiggles his fingers under the blanket and brushes the back of my hand, just a brief, friendly touch that shoots awareness up my arm. “Beach or mountains?”
“Beach. But not crowded. Like… empty beach at sunset.”
“Specific.” He smiles. “Pancakes or waffles?”
“Waffles. They’re little syrup bathtubs.” I tilt my head. “You?”
“Waffles. For engineering reasons.”
He thinks for a beat. “Okay, Twenty Questions. Person, place, or thing?”
