Snowed In Read online

  7

  Only, we weren’t kissing. I was amazed by how much I wished we were. I wondered if he had a girlfriend. He hadn’t mentioned one. But would he get this close to another girl if he did?

  On the other hand, I hadn’t mentioned my date with Chase. But a date…well, dates came and went in my life.

  “Want to give it a try?” he asked.

  He held the brush in front of my face. I made a fist to stop my hand from shaking before I took it from him.

  “It’s okay to paint over the stencil,” he said.

  I nodded quickly. “I think I’ve got it.”

  “Are you afraid of heights?”

  “No, why?”

  “Because you’re shaking.”

  “I’m just a little cold. Not used to the weather yet.”

  Cold? What a lie! I was practically burning up.

  “Then I definitely don’t want you on my snow volleyball team.”

  “Snow volleyball?”

  “Yeah, me and the guys are gonna play later this afternoon. You could come watch us.”

  Was he asking me out? Should I tell him about Chase?

  “You know,” he added, “meet people. Besides, studies have shown that staying indoors can lead to depression.”

  “And emergency rooms have shown that staying outdoors can lead to frostbite, loss of limbs, and freezing to death.”

  “Only if you’re careless.”

  I shook my head. “It’s so cold out there.”

  “Not once you get used to it.”

  “You know, if you ever went to Texas you’d probably complain about the heat.”

  “I never complain about weather. It is what it is.”

  “You’d complain.” I twisted around slightly to make a point—and I’m absolutely certain it was a very valid point and would have nailed his butt—but he was so close and his blue eyes were sparkling as if he were amused…

  And then they weren’t.

  They got totally serious. And he dipped his gaze to my lips. That started them tingling. My body got hotter. How would I explain being taken to the ER with a case of heat stroke?

  I wanted to laugh, but this wasn’t funny. It was, like, maybe we both realized that being up there on the ladder together, so close together, wasn’t a smart move.

  Because we had nowhere to go except toward each other and then figuring out if we preferred the dab or the swirl.

  And we’d barely had a conversation, but here I was, certain he was going to kiss me.

  I watched as his Adam’s apple slid up and down.

  “Um, so, think you’re okay with the stenciling?” he asked.

  His voice sounded like he hadn’t had anything to drink in years. Dry and scratchy.

  I nodded. “I think so.”

  To my utter mortification, I didn’t sound much better.

  “Okay, then, I’ll leave you to it.”

  Only, he stayed where he was, looking at me like he’d never really seen me before. Like maybe he was under a spell. I didn’t want him to go, but I didn’t want him to stay. For the first time in my life, when it came to a guy, I was confused about what I wanted.

  “Are you afraid of heights?” I asked, to jar us out of whatever was happening here.

  “What?”

  “You’re not leaving.”

  “Right.” He shook his head, grinned. “Right.”

  Then he climbed down the ladder.

  I took a deep breath, not realizing until that moment that I hadn’t been breathing.

  It got really quiet as I worked on the stenciling. He went back to painting the wall. It was kinda weird because I kept thinking that this would always be our room, even when strangers stayed in it. It was the room where we’d talked and worked together. The room where a spark between us almost got started.

  But since the spark hadn’t ignited, we shared an awkward silence.

  “So, this snow volleyball…What do you do? Toss snowballs at each other and swat them back and forth?” I asked.

  He laughed a little too loudly, like maybe he was as uncomfortable with whatever had almost happened on the ladder as I was.

  “No. It’s just volleyball. You know volleyball, right?”

  “Yeah, I know volleyball. But it’s never included the element of snow, so I’m just trying to picture how it works.”

  “You know anything about beach volleyball?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. He was watching me instead of painting. I felt a small thrill at the realization that I had his attention.

  “Yes, I know beach volleyball.”

  “So imagine snow instead of sand.”

  I went further than that. I imagined everyone bundled up, rolling around trying to get the ball. Athletic ability was certain to be lacking. I snickered at the thought. “I don’t see how it can be very competitive.”

  “It’s entertaining, if nothing else. Come and watch us play,” he said. “We’ll be on the beach—”

  “There is no beach,” I reminded him.

  “There is in the summer. We use the beach volleyball nets. You’ll be able to see us from your window, but it’s better up close.”

  It had definitely been better with him up close on the ladder.

  He suddenly seemed nervous, maybe thinking the same thing I was, and started rolling the paint over the wall very quickly, almost obsessively, like get this done and get out of here.

  “I think Mom’s planning on us practicing to have a tea party this afternoon,” I said.

  “Oh, that’ll be way more fun,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  I laughed, because he was so right. And what girl in her right mind would willingly choose watercress and cheddar sandwiches over watching hot guys play volleyball, even if they’d look like the Michelin tire guy while doing it?

  He turned to look at me. “I like your laugh.”

  Which made me stop laughing, because something in his eyes told me he liked more than just my laughter.

  As though neither of us knew quite what to do with this attraction, we both returned to painting—furiously.

  We’d be finished before teatime.

  Thinking about watching Josh play volleyball gave me very little patience for sitting down for tea. Afternoon tea is supposed to be calm and relaxing, but all I wanted was for it to be over with.

  I stood in the kitchen, cutting crusts off the bread of our cream cheese, cheddar cheese, and watercress sandwiches.

  “I want to find a summertime drink to offer in the afternoons,” Mom said.

  “How ’bout lemonade?”

  “That’s so unoriginal. I was thinking something more unique.” Mom took a bite of the sandwich, which she’d cut into little triangles.

  Any other time, I probably would have thought the tiny sandwiches were cute. But I had watching-a-cute-guy on the brain. And cute guy always wins out over cute sandwiches.

  “It’s pretty good,” Mom said.

  I took a bite. It was.

  Mom took a Post-it note and drew three stars on it. She had a cookbook system: three stars—like it, want to serve it again; two stars—it’s okay in a pinch; one star—tried it once, never again. She slapped the Post-it on the page in her Teatime cookbook. “One down, about two hundred to go.”

  I was horrified. “We’re not going to make all those sandwiches, are we?”

  “Well, no, not all of them, but we need to have a nice selection, and I certainly don’t want to serve something I haven’t tasted. And then there are all the yummy desserts.”

  Speaking of yummy…

  Now was probably the time to tell Mom that I wanted to cut the teatime short.

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, hopping out of the chair.

  “Wonder who it could be,” Mom murmured.

  It was Nathalie.

  “Heard there was going to be a tea party. Thought you could use rescuing,” she whispered.

  How had she heard that? Had my