The walk is long—but it’s not as bad as I was expecting until we reach the bottom of the hill where the mansion sits. It’s one thing to drive up it in a van but climbing up it in the snow after walking two and a half miles is no easy feat.
By the time we make it to the front of the mansion, my feet are sore, and I feel like there’s icicles coming from my eyebrows. We rush in through the main doors, and my shoes are globbed with ice and snow from hurrying across the lawn instead of around and through the cleared path.
I immediately take a seat on a sofa in front of the fireplace, which is going steady with a large fire. Right away, I fan my fingers out in front of the flames to warm them up. Dean sits next to me, taking off his gloves, breathing heavily from following me at a quick pace. I look at him and let out a small laugh. He looks just as rugged as I feel, snow caught in his eyebrows.
“You have ice on your face,” I tell him.
“Where?” He asks, pawing at his face with his gloved hand.
“Here, let me,” I say, reaching towards his brow. He hesitates, then nods. Although his face is cold, and my hands aren’t much warmer, the sensation of my fingers on his face sends me sizzling and spiraling. I pick out tiny ice crystals from his black, bushy eyebrows, tossing them onto the floor where they immediately melt into the rug.
The act of picking ice crystals off someone’s face is not particularly intimate or affectionate, but I can’t tell if Dean’s face is pink from the cold or from me touching him.
“There you go. All gone,” I say.
“You have snow in your hair,” Dean says suddenly, needing to get even. He reaches out to pull a chunk of a snowball from myhair that isn’t covered by my hat. “How does this even happen?” He asks. “Were you rolling in the snow?”
“No. You saw me the entire time.” I say, my eyes fixed on his dark pupils. Something about touching him is absolutely addicting, and the more he caresses my hair, even if just to remove a block of snow, the more I want him to touch me. I’m totally, completely fascinated by his hands and the way they move when they’re close to me.
Dean places a hand on my knee, testing the waters, and I feel too hot and it’s not because of the fireplace. “I’ll see you in a few hours, okay?” He says. “I’ll come knock on your door.”
“Okay.” I agree, my breath is shaky, as he squeezes my knee and stands up. I watch him as he walks up the stairs, coat in his arms. When he disappears out of view, I hold my head in my hands. What am I getting myself into?
If The Tide Takes The Coast by Andy McKinney
If the tide takes the coast,
From starboard to port
You’ll be the one on the boat
Oh, oh, oh, oh
If the tide takes the coast,
You’ll be the one I miss the most
I’ll be alone
Oh, oh, oh,
If the sea swallows us whole
From the first date to our wedding court
I won’t let life cut you short
Oh, oh, oh
If the sea swallows us whole
I think I love you more now that
You’ll be the one on that boat and
Oh, oh, oh
You’ll be the one on that boat
