Chapter 10
The laundry room door clicked shut behind me, leaving the hum of the dryer and Graham’s last grin in my wake. The air still carried the warm, clean scent of fabric softener, mingling with the faint, smoky tang of the woodstove that had roared to life once the power returned.
As I made my way down the hall, the house felt alive again—the hum of the refrigerator, the faint rush of the heater kicking on, the scattered remnants of our storm survival efforts strewn about like the aftermath of a makeshift campsite.
In the kitchen, puddles of melted snow near the back door glistened under the weak sunlight streaming through the window. A pile of mismatched candles cluttered the counter, their waxy edges softened from the night’s use. Mom perched on a stool, a mug of tea cradled in her hands, her normally sleek bun unraveling into wisps that framed her face. She looked up as I entered, offering me a tired but relieved smile.
“Power’s back,” I said, unnecessarily, as I set the laundry basket on the table.
“Thank the heavens,” she murmured, taking a sip of tea that steamed lazily in the morning light. “Though I think the universe is telling me it’s time to invest in a generator.”
“Or better snow tires,” I quipped, folding a dish towel from the basket and adding it to the stack on the counter.
Her chuckle was soft, like the first crack of ice thawing. “You’re probably right.”
Her gaze lingered as I moved through the kitchen, her eyes following me like she was trying to read the spaces between my words.
“Did you and Graham manage to keep yourselves entertained during the blackout?”
My hands froze over the next towel. It was an innocent enough question, but I could feel her curiosity hanging in the air like an untied balloon. I forced my tone to stay casual. “Oh, you know. Stared dramatically into the void. Shared life stories. Did the usual power-outage bonding.”
Mom’s eyebrow arched in that way only mothers can manage, skeptical but not pressing. Her lips twitched, caught between a smile and the effort not to pry. “Well, as long as you didn’t kill each other, I’ll call it a win.”
I rolled my eyes, grabbing the kettle from the stove and filling it at the sink. “Barely,” I muttered, though my traitorous mind replayed every teasing grin and sidelong glance from last night.
I set the kettle on the burner, its metal bottom clinking against the grate. The methodical rhythm of preparing tea steadied me, grounding me after the whirl Graham had left in his wake.
What was it about him? The way he could straddle the line between charming and exasperating with infuriating ease? The way his smile lingered in my thoughts, uninvited and too vivid? I sighed, trying to shake the image of his too-relaxed stance against the laundry room doorway.
The kettle’s whistle cut through my thoughts, sharp and urgent. Outside, the world sparkled with that unmistakable post-storm clarity. The sunlight made the snow glisten, turning every drift into a patch of glitter. Beyond the fence, the driveway was a battleground of ice and piled snow, a challenge waiting to be conquered.
“Looks like the driveway’s going to be a project,” I said, peering out the window.
Mom looked up from her tea, glancing toward the window. “I was going to call Frank from down the road to bring his plow, but if you want to take a crack at it...”
“Sure,” I said, already moving toward the door. I grabbed my scarf from the hook, wrapping it snugly around my neck. “Tell Frank he’s off the hook.”
The cold hit me like a shock as I stepped outside, crisp and biting against my cheeks. The shovel rested against the porch railing, its handle splintered from years of use. The snow had drifted high in some places, nearly to the bottom of the windows, while other spots were deceptively clear. The uneven terrain dared me to start.
I was halfway through the first path when the sound of boots crunching on snow made me glance up. Graham stood on the porch, leaning against the railing with that same insufferable grin that seemed to know more than it should.
"Need a hand?" he called, reaching for a second shovel leaning against the wall.
I straightened, wiping a gloved hand across my forehead. “Not if you’re going to spend more time talking than shoveling.”
His grin widened, his breath fogging in the icy air. “Oh, ye of little faith,” he said, tossing me a wink before stepping down into the snow.
The first scrape of his shovel against the ice was oddly satisfying, and I couldn’t resist glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. He moved with an easy confidence, the kind that made it impossible not to notice him.
“You’re holding that wrong,” I said, aiming for nonchalance as I adjusted my grip on my own shovel.
He looked up, feigning indignation. “Excuse me, Little Miss Snow-Removal Expert. I think I can handle a little shoveling.”
I smirked, tossing a chunk of snow onto the growing pile. “We’ll see. Let me know when you’ve cleared more than a square foot.”
His laugh was low and warm, cutting through the cold like a spark. “Careful, Isla. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to out-shovel me.”
“I’m not trying,” I said, throwing him a look over my shoulder. “I’m succeeding.”
He paused, leaning on his shovel as he gave me an exaggerated once-over. “You know, if you put this much energy into everything, you might be dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” I scoffed. “You haven’t even seen my competitive side.”
“Oh, I’ve got a glimpse,” he said, flashing that maddening grin again. “And let me tell you, it’s pretty entertaining.”
I rolled my eyes, but the laughter bubbled up anyway, warm and easy in the frigid air.
And just like that, the morning stretched on—shovels scraping against ice, cheeks flushed red from the cold, and banter hanging in the air as bright and sharp as the sunlight.
As I made my way down the hall, the house felt alive again—the hum of the refrigerator, the faint rush of the heater kicking on, the scattered remnants of our storm survival efforts strewn about like the aftermath of a makeshift campsite.
In the kitchen, puddles of melted snow near the back door glistened under the weak sunlight streaming through the window. A pile of mismatched candles cluttered the counter, their waxy edges softened from the night’s use. Mom perched on a stool, a mug of tea cradled in her hands, her normally sleek bun unraveling into wisps that framed her face. She looked up as I entered, offering me a tired but relieved smile.
“Power’s back,” I said, unnecessarily, as I set the laundry basket on the table.
“Thank the heavens,” she murmured, taking a sip of tea that steamed lazily in the morning light. “Though I think the universe is telling me it’s time to invest in a generator.”
“Or better snow tires,” I quipped, folding a dish towel from the basket and adding it to the stack on the counter.
Her chuckle was soft, like the first crack of ice thawing. “You’re probably right.”
Her gaze lingered as I moved through the kitchen, her eyes following me like she was trying to read the spaces between my words.
“Did you and Graham manage to keep yourselves entertained during the blackout?”
My hands froze over the next towel. It was an innocent enough question, but I could feel her curiosity hanging in the air like an untied balloon. I forced my tone to stay casual. “Oh, you know. Stared dramatically into the void. Shared life stories. Did the usual power-outage bonding.”
Mom’s eyebrow arched in that way only mothers can manage, skeptical but not pressing. Her lips twitched, caught between a smile and the effort not to pry. “Well, as long as you didn’t kill each other, I’ll call it a win.”
I rolled my eyes, grabbing the kettle from the stove and filling it at the sink. “Barely,” I muttered, though my traitorous mind replayed every teasing grin and sidelong glance from last night.
I set the kettle on the burner, its metal bottom clinking against the grate. The methodical rhythm of preparing tea steadied me, grounding me after the whirl Graham had left in his wake.
What was it about him? The way he could straddle the line between charming and exasperating with infuriating ease? The way his smile lingered in my thoughts, uninvited and too vivid? I sighed, trying to shake the image of his too-relaxed stance against the laundry room doorway.
The kettle’s whistle cut through my thoughts, sharp and urgent. Outside, the world sparkled with that unmistakable post-storm clarity. The sunlight made the snow glisten, turning every drift into a patch of glitter. Beyond the fence, the driveway was a battleground of ice and piled snow, a challenge waiting to be conquered.
“Looks like the driveway’s going to be a project,” I said, peering out the window.
Mom looked up from her tea, glancing toward the window. “I was going to call Frank from down the road to bring his plow, but if you want to take a crack at it...”
“Sure,” I said, already moving toward the door. I grabbed my scarf from the hook, wrapping it snugly around my neck. “Tell Frank he’s off the hook.”
The cold hit me like a shock as I stepped outside, crisp and biting against my cheeks. The shovel rested against the porch railing, its handle splintered from years of use. The snow had drifted high in some places, nearly to the bottom of the windows, while other spots were deceptively clear. The uneven terrain dared me to start.
I was halfway through the first path when the sound of boots crunching on snow made me glance up. Graham stood on the porch, leaning against the railing with that same insufferable grin that seemed to know more than it should.
"Need a hand?" he called, reaching for a second shovel leaning against the wall.
I straightened, wiping a gloved hand across my forehead. “Not if you’re going to spend more time talking than shoveling.”
His grin widened, his breath fogging in the icy air. “Oh, ye of little faith,” he said, tossing me a wink before stepping down into the snow.
The first scrape of his shovel against the ice was oddly satisfying, and I couldn’t resist glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. He moved with an easy confidence, the kind that made it impossible not to notice him.
“You’re holding that wrong,” I said, aiming for nonchalance as I adjusted my grip on my own shovel.
He looked up, feigning indignation. “Excuse me, Little Miss Snow-Removal Expert. I think I can handle a little shoveling.”
I smirked, tossing a chunk of snow onto the growing pile. “We’ll see. Let me know when you’ve cleared more than a square foot.”
His laugh was low and warm, cutting through the cold like a spark. “Careful, Isla. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to out-shovel me.”
“I’m not trying,” I said, throwing him a look over my shoulder. “I’m succeeding.”
He paused, leaning on his shovel as he gave me an exaggerated once-over. “You know, if you put this much energy into everything, you might be dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” I scoffed. “You haven’t even seen my competitive side.”
“Oh, I’ve got a glimpse,” he said, flashing that maddening grin again. “And let me tell you, it’s pretty entertaining.”
I rolled my eyes, but the laughter bubbled up anyway, warm and easy in the frigid air.
And just like that, the morning stretched on—shovels scraping against ice, cheeks flushed red from the cold, and banter hanging in the air as bright and sharp as the sunlight.
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