“The enchanted cloak,” I say.
She nods. “It started with the cloak. But there was still magic left, so he made a house on the mountainside. But there was still magic left, so he cast a protective spell around the elves’ village. But there was still magic left… Do you see where I’m going with this?” she asks as we inch closer to the edge of the mountain.
“I think so.”
“Before he died, he went in search of a couple just like him and his beloved. A couple that had made the ultimate commitment of marriage and had a love so strong that it could power the world if need be. He moved them to the village, bonded them with the magic, and had them work alongside the elves. They wrote up bylaws and made provisions and this place has been operating ever since,” she says, ending our history lesson by pulling down her ski goggles. “You and Patrick are the next chapter in a long evolution of age-old magic.”
“That sounds intense.”
“It is,” she says with a throwaway laugh before speeding off down the mountain.
When we’ve had enough, we return to the chalet and strip out of our clothes. We both had a few embarrassing falls at the start, so there are maps of bluish bruises connecting like vines up our sides. We decide to soak our aching bodies in the hot tub.
In search of a swimsuit, I find my closet has been overhauled. Gone are most of the antique red velvet pieces, and in their place hang chic suits, pointy-toed boots with low, sensible heels, and a colorful assortment of shirts. There’s a pair of five-inch-seam trunks in candy-apple red folded neatly on a shelf in the back.
Champagne is already uncorked and sitting on the counter when we enter the kitchen. Bubbles swim to the top of two glistening flutes. We take them out back where two plush towels lie overa heated rack. Steam billows off the top of the tub, which has lights inside it that shine, pink and lovely.
Submerging, I let out a relaxed sigh. “Now this place isreallygivingThe Bachelor.”
“The coveted hot-tub date,” Patrick says with a chortle.
We sit on opposite sides of the sizable tub. Water gurgles between us but we can still hear each other. Our eyes meet over the spray. “In an alternate universe, where we hadn’t met at Penderton, and you’re the hotshot architect chosen as the season lead and I’m just Quinn Muller, elementary school teacher from New Jersey, would I make it to the final rose ceremony?”
I surprise even myself with the question. Not that I haven’t been pondering it for some months now. There was something off about the way our engagement shook out, how quickly we wed afterward, as if we were racing against a clock I couldn’t see.
“Without a doubt,” he says, slipping off his seat and wading through the water toward me. His wide chest is gleaming with droplets of pink-tinted water. The shimmer effect catches in his eyes, making them even more stunning. “No matter the universe, I’d pick you.”
“Good answer,” I say as the space diminishes between us.
“It’s the only answer,” he says, the tips of our noses now touching. “Because it’s the truth.”
If I weren’t so entrapped by his eyes, I might see that, around us, it’s begun to snow. Instead, I only feel the flakes as they land gently on the exposed crests of my shoulders, stick, and melt into my damp hair. Even so, those sensations are quickly usurped by Patrick kissing me, the decadent press of his lips into mine.
It’s not until I pull away to steal a shaky breath that I notice, intermingled with the large, fluffy snowflakes, golden orbs skitter around as if the magic is cheering us on.
Patrick’s knees bracket my hips until our chests are flush and our heartbeats are knocking back and forth on each other’s sternums,like a game of tag. My hands dome around Patrick’s precious and perfect face. I hold it with reverence. I kiss him with the same.
Rivulets of water sluice down the insides of my forearms. It’s like we’re washing away any negative emotions, any worries at all.
We make out like we did when we first met, like we’re starved for each other. Patrick grinds against my lap and reminds me how desperate I am to be satiated. To be as close to him as possible.
The water ripples around us as Patrick removes his arms from around my neck. “Shall I grab the towels?”
“No,” I say firmly. Aware that my voice is not the only firm thing between us. “No time. I need you. I need you so badly and I need you now.”
“Take me, Quinn,” he says, his arms returning to my neck, his mouth returning to my ear.“Have me.”
27THE RIGHT WORDSPATRICK
359 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
By New Year’s Eve, we’ve exploited every luxury that the chalet has to offer.
We’ve soaked in the hot tub every evening while watching the northern lights. We’ve read novels side by side in the well-stocked library. We’ve stayed up until the wee hours of the morning in our cozy bed talking about regrets, dreams, and everything in between.
In the mornings, we take steaming mugs of coffee and freshly baked cinnamon buns out onto the front deck, sit in separate rocking chairs with warm blankets draped over our legs, and wait for the village to wake up. One by one, lights in the cabins and cottages flick on. Elves emerge from their front doors with greetings for their neighbors. Children sitting in a row on sleds are tugged toward the town square. The clock tower chimes, and a carol plays. Its jingly notes reach all the way up here.
Six days. We got six days of uninterrupted time to celebrate us. Secluded up here in our chalet, we’ve made love by the fire, reacquainted ourselves with the other’s favorite snacks, and, in our screening room, binge-watched all the TV we’ve been missing out on.
