I have a new mission: confuse him until he comes to me.
The next stick lands with a satisfyingclackon a sheet of ice in the creek. He freezes, and I can practically see understanding dawn on him before he turns around again, more cautiously this time.
“Hey, Brie!” he shouts in the wrong direction. “Whatdo you think about some hot chocolate later? I make really great hot chocolate.”
It’s taking real effort not to cackle at his obvious effort to suss out where I am. This is the most fun I’ve had in alongtime. No colleagues or students’ parents to deal with, no job applications to fill out, and no counting down the days til I’m out of town. All I have is one singular focus: destroy Sawyer with snow.
“You like whipped cream?” he yells. “Who’m I kidding, of course you like whipped cream. I’ll make some for you.”
Hot chocolate with homemade whipped cream sounds amazing, but I say nothing as I look for more surfaces to fling sticks at. This part of his property is nice and open, so there aren’t many options. I manage to make one more strategic pitch. He spins around, and runs straight toward me. Quickly, I gather as much snow in my giant gloves as possible, and watch.
He’s four feet away.
Three.
Two.
Thump.
The snow lands on his chest, like I meant for it to, but some gets on his bare neck, melting on his skin and dripping into his shirt. His resultant yelp has me doubled over in laughter.
“I’m sorry!” I wheeze. “I didn’t . . . mean . . .”
“You think that’s funny?”
The belly laugh won’t stop. “It wasn’t . . . supposed . . .”
He cuts me off by putting the beanie over my head, covering my eyes until there’s nothing but darkness and a sliver of white light where the fabric meets my cheeks.
“Your turn.”
“No!” I squeal, but I run anyway. “This issonot fair!”
Or, I try to run. It’s like trying to propel myself upstream through water, fully clothed and blanketed.
A snowball thumps softly on my back. “Should’ve thought of that before you stuffed snow down my shirt.”
“I didn’t do that! I can’t even move my fingers in these stupid gloves,” I say, trying to hike up my pants so I can move quicker. “Besides,” I holler over my shoulder, “that’s what you get for not dressing appropriately!”
“You’re one to talk—” His voice is excruciatingly close, barely three feet behind me.
I’m a wounded deer being hunted by a ghost. Another snowball lands on my calf.
“—Ms. Dresses-for-sun-in-a-blizzard,” he continues. “Anyway, you’re wearing all my warm clothes. I had no choice. Because I’m agentleman.” That last word is emphasized with a snowball smacking my ass. The uninjured side.
A giggle rockets out from my throat. “Puh-lease. You didn’t need to wear at-shirt. You have, like, a thousand flannel shirts.”
“Been paying attention, have you?” His voice is right at my left ear.
I let out a shrill shriek and whirl away, but my toe snags on something, which would have been fine, except I accidentally let go of my pants. The bulky insulated fabric bunches around my knees. It happens so fast. I begin tipping over, with no chance of righting myself.
Then Sawyer’s heavy body tackles me, pinwheeling us in midair.
With an “Oof,” he lands on his back, with me chest-to-chest on top of him, both of us shaking with laughter. Tooexhausted to do anything else, I lay my head on his chest. I gasp when my lower cheek meets the cold wet fabric of his shirt.
His chuckle quakes through me.
I peel the beanie off my eyes. “Thanks for saving me. Again.”
