“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Good night.”
After rapidly brushing my teeth and washing my face, I retreated to my room, opening the window and sucking in the night air: delicious and sweet and refreshing, more liquid than oxygen, intoxicating enough to get drunk on. I smoothed my hands out on the windowsill. Usually, Nantucket calmed me, the eye in the middle of the storm. But nothing could calm me in the face of Tyler Nelson.
I dropped into bed, head cushioned by the soft pillows, less firm than the ones at home, and tried not to think about him. I pulled the familiar blue quilt up to my chin and closed my eyes.
As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered what kind of miracle perfect, golden Tyler Nelson could possibly want.
CHAPTER SIX
I woke from unsettling, titillating dreams I couldn’t remember.
From bed, I could see an expanse of distant blue sky outside, unlike the low white ceiling of yesterday. The storm had blown over. Snow glittered beneath the early sun, piled in heaps across the lawn and frosting the tall pines. In the distance, the sapphire sea sparkled brightly.
Sapphire sea like sapphire eyes. Oh god. Tyler Nelson was here.
I changed from my actual pajamas to cute flannel bottoms and a black Henley and holstered my hair in a ponytail before heading downstairs. The decorations we’d put up made me smile. No wonder Grandma did this every year; a hint of festiveness could lift your whole mood. The wreaths made of silver and blue ornaments, the dreidels scattered on tables, theHAPPY CHANUKAH!sign strung across one doorway, handcrafted by the triplets out ofconstruction paper and glitter a few years ago—it made December feel right.
As I entered the great room, I heard the crackle of the fire. Surprised, I turned to the fireplace and found Tyler in his own flannels. He held a Dutch oven and stared at it with intense concentration.
“Um. Good morning?”
He looked up and hope flared on his face. “Good, you’re up. Is this a Dutch oven?”
“Um. Yes. Why?”
He gave me a woeful look. “If I don’t have coffee before noon every day, I’ll die. I can put this in the fire, right?”
“I... think so?”
Good enough for Tyler. He placed the Dutch oven in the fireplace, and used a poker to nudge it into the embers. “Do you want any?”
“Um.” I watched, bemused. “No. Thanks. You’re boiling water?”
“It was either this or hold a pot over the fire itself. Which I tried, but my arm got too hot.”
“Wow. Commitment. We could make oatmeal, too.”
He brightened. There was something soft about him right now, sleep-tousled and slow. “Good idea.”
With the water sufficiently hot, we assembled coffee and oatmeal, dusting the latter with cinnamon and honey. “We’re regular pioneers,” Tyler said happily. “God, I love coffee. It’s greatyour oil lasted for eight nights and all, but if I had to pick a miraculously unending power source, it would be coffee.”
“You’re an addict.” I smiled slightly. Tyler Nelson—weirder than I had thought. “Have you heard from your moms?”
“Yeah, they’ll be here on the three o’clock.”
“Same with my family.”
He ate a spoonful of oatmeal, then spoke, very lightly. “I could go home now.”
“You could.” I aimed for the same airy tone. It was harder, in the bright light of morning, without the support of alcohol, to sound casual and open. “Or you can stay. It’s not like I have anything urgent to take care of.” It felt almost indulgent, to not have to run off to math tutoring or a café shift or homework.
“What an indolent life you live.”
“Please,” I said, slightly insulted. “I have a job.”
“Seriously? What?”
