She tossed the pillow aside and hoisted herself out of the tub. Enough with the monosyllabic torture, enough with the fake yawning thing they did to justify an early bedtime. There was no use fighting it, no sense in making things worse than they were. They were both at fault. He’d hurt her feelings, and she’d goaded him in return. But now? Now someone had to be the bigger person.
Once upon a time, Tommy had been her friend. Her best friend. Yes, she’d wanted more. Had believed he wanted more. But he’d clearly moved on, and she should do the same. For whatever reason, they’d been given a second chance. She wasn’t so naïve as to think a few days trapped in a cabin together would heal their past, but they could part on better terms. And wouldn’t it be nice to think of him one day with fondness rather than bitterness?
She rounded the staging screen and stifled a sigh. Once again, Tommy had taken her work time as an opportunity to clean. The wood floor was spotless. Every surface was cleared, and all her belongings were…well, not visible. The guilty party sat in the rocking chair before the fire with an open book in his lap.
A log popped in the fireplace, and she greedily absorbed the way the flickering flames cast a warm golden hue across his freckled skin. Why shouldn’t she ogle him? That’s what artists did. It had nothing to do with the man himself.
Liar.
“I hope you organized my things according to my logic, not your own.”
Tommy looked up, one brow arching. “That would be impossible since logic and pure chaos are diametrically opposed.”
She wrinkled her nose at him and tried to ignore how the low, husky timbre of his voice—as smooth as velvet brushing against her ear—sent a shiver quaking through her body.
Claustrophobia had clearly set in.
“I was thinking—” She lost her train of thought when her gaze landed on the bookshelf. “Did you alphabetize my books?”
“You needn’t sound so horrified.” Humor coated Tommy’s voice. “All books need organization.”
“They were organized.” At his doubtful look, she added, “By color.”
“Whoever heard of such a monstrous thing?”
“People with aesthetic, which you obviously lack.” She eyed the bookshelf with disgruntlement. “I’ll deal with that later.”
“Because you’re too busy thinking?”
“Don’t tease me. But yes, I’ve been thinking.”
“About what?”
She noted the thread of wariness in his tone and, unexpectedly, compassion flooded her. She hadn’t really taken the time to properly appreciate what he’d been through. If he hadn’t found her cabin, he would most likely be dead. How horrific would it have been to stumble across his body once the snow thawed? She suppressed a shudder, not only at the grisly notion but also at the thought of never seeing him again.
“About how we’re snowed in together. And how we were once friends.” She paused. Tugged on her earlobe. Stared at the ceiling. “Perhaps…perhaps we could call a truce for as long as we’re here.”
Her olive branch might be a twig, but it was genuine.
He studied her and scratched at the fresh scruff on his chin. “What sort of truce?”
“No more awkward silence. Let’s be friends, legitimate friends, again.”
He hesitated—hesitated!—before raising one shoulder in an indolent shrug. “All right.”
It was quite possible his decision was prompted by a strong desire to avoid being eaten by vultures, but it would have to do. Besides, no one said it had to be an enthusiastic rekindling of the olden days. They just had to make it through the storm to get what they both wanted.
“Then it’s agreed,” she said. “Say, friend?”
“Yes, friend?”
“It’s your turn to shovel the path to the outhouse.”
Tommy paced around the cabin, pausing periodically to push aside the velvet curtains and peer through the frost-lined window. The wind no longer whipped across the land, and the snow, which had fallen relentlessly for days, had tapered into a gentle flurry. Evidence of the abating storm should have thrilled him, but he merely huffed with impatience, his breath fogging up the windowpane.
Where was Imogen?
She’d been gone too long. A trip to the outhouse shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, yet she’d been gone for at least half an hour. Maybe more. Had something happened? Knowing Imogen, there were at least a dozen ways she could end up impaled on an icicle. He remembered all too well how he’d pulled her out of a pond at age eleven and scared off a pack of mongrels lured by her candied apple at fourteen. A lot worse could occur in the treacherous conditions outside.
