“Let’s make breakfast,” I say, needing a diversion for us both.
“On the fire again?” she asks, like it’s the most exciting thing.
“Sure.”
And then we make out for another twenty minutes—hands above the waist but not without some heavy rocking—before getting ourselves out of our warm cocoon.
She hops to the bathroom like she’s dodging hot coals and shrieks at the water temperature when she splashes water on her face. Still in my clothes she slept in, hair messy from sleep, she looks so right. She belongs here in this cabin with me.
The thought stays with me as I get ingredients forbreakfast and stoke the fire. As Brie settles onto the blanket by the roaring fire, she rolls up her sleeves and unbuttons the top buttons of her shirt. I catch glimpses of soft skin, the swell of the top of her breast. My eyes drop to her bare legs, the boxers loose enough to slide both hands into from the bottom.
I’ve got to find something for us to do before I go caveman on her.
After breakfast, I practically shoved Brie into my snow bib and jacket, hoping to get away from temptation before I did something I shouldn’t. I figured if I had any chance with her, then we need to spend time together in the present without the past looming over us like a dark cloud. So I suggested we build a snowman.
We step back and look at our creation. It’s huge, nearly as tall as me with buttons for eyes and a smile.
“It looks good,” I say.
“It?”
“Him? Her? They?”
She makes a face. “Not sure. We need to give it something else.”
“Want me to go get a scarf or hat?”
“No, no,” she says, casting around for something on the streaks of barren ground the snow for the spheres came from. Her face lights up when she finds what she’s looking for and sticks something into the space between the middle and bottom sections. I come around to see a twig, barely the length of my pinky finger sticking out, with a perfectly round end. She adds two acorns beneath it.
Genitals for our snowman.
“There,” she says, looking altogether too pleased with herself. “Perfect.”
I rub my jaw. “What a stud. That’s gotta be at least, what, eight inches?”
A laugh explodes out of her as she squints at the wooden stub. “You might need to get your eyes checked.”
“Ten?!”
Another laugh, and I could live on the sound alone. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are pink from the cold, brown hair framing her face beneath the beanie. My jeans are soaked at the knee from kneeling, and my shirt is wet from hefting sections onto the snowman. Brie’s feet are probably wet and freezing.
“You ready to go inside?”
“Yes, please.”
I help her shuck her gear before stripping out of my clothes. As I head to my dresser in my boxer briefs, her muffled voice comes from inside the blankets by the hearth.
“What?” I ask.
More urgent muffling.
My brows knit and I walk over without putting my pants on. Only her eyes peek out from beneath the covers.
I tug the blanket down to her chin. “What was that?”
“The fire’s almost out.” She lolls her head back dramatically. “Is this what it feels like to get hypothermia?”
My mouth quirks. “Poor baby,” I tease.
