Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
“Morning,” Tempe says, her face lighting up with a warm smile. She nods at my coat. “Big plans for the day?”
“Job interviews,” I lie smoothly, grabbing an apple from the counter. “Checking out a few bartending jobs, then maybe meeting some friends later.”
The corner of Rafferty’s mouth lifts. “Or you could get admissions material from some of the local colleges.”
“Or,” I drawl sarcastically, “you can mind your own business.”
Rafferty barks out a laugh, looking unrepentant. He’ll never stop pushing me to go to school. “Good luck. Let me know if you need a reference.”
“I will,” I say, smirking. “Thanks.”
Tempe’s eyes linger on me, her expression curious, but she doesn’t say anything. I throw on my coat, wave them off, and call for an Uber.
By the time my driver pulls up in front of North’s house, the sky is bright blue, and the sun is shining leaving the blanket of snow sparkling like it’s crusted with diamonds. He’s sitting on the front porch in a dark green winter jacket, a large thermos and two mugs sitting beside him and a mischievous grin already tugging at his lips.
I step out of the car, turning to thank the driver, when a snowball whizzes past my head.
I spin around and catch one right in the sternum. “Are you kidding me?” I yell, laughing despite myself.
The Uber driver pulls away and I take in North, his grin widening as he walks down the sidewalk freshly scraped of snow.
He bends over, gathers another ball of the white stuff in his gloved hands. “You better start dodging, Abrams. You’re in my domain now.”
“Oh, it’s on,” I murmur, dropping my purse to the ground and scooping up a handful of snow.
The next few minutes are chaos. We sprint around his front yard, ducking behind trees and bushes, hurling snowballs with reckless abandon. Laughter bubbles up uncontrollably, each hit and miss fueling the growing exhilaration.
North is a professional athlete and his aim is ridiculously good. Any that I manage to land, I suspect he lets it happen to make me feel good about myself.
Just as I wind up to let one loose, he barrels toward me like a charging bull. I scramble backward but he picks me up, spins me around and then we collapse back into a snowdrift, breathless and laughing.
North grins like an idiot. “You’re terrible at this game, by the way.”
“I let you win,” I lie, brushing snow off my face.
“Sure you did.” He leans back on his elbows, his breath visible in the crisp air. “So, you always this competitive, or am I just special?”
I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling. “You might be special. Don’t let it go to your head.”
He chuckles and then jumps up, looking every bit the kid as he does so. He hauls me up and we walk to the porch where he motions for me to sit.
“What’s in the thermos?” I ask as he unscrews the cap.
“Mexican hot chocolate,” he says, pouring a fragrant mug for me.
“Ooh, fancy,” I murmur as I inhale the scent of chocolate, cayenne and a little bit of cinnamon before taking a tiny sip. I feel the slight tingle from the pepper on my tongue and groan with appreciation.
North pours himself a cup and we sit side by side in comfortable silence, watching kids a few houses down making snow angels.
“You ever do this growing up?” he asks, glancing at me.
I nod, surprised by the flood of memories. “Yeah. Rafferty and I used to build snow forts in the backyard. We’d spend hours outside until we couldn’t feel our fingers anymore. You?”
North’s gaze softens. “I don’t have siblings, but we had a ragtag group of kids in my neighborhood. Love the snow days.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, sliding down memory lane, the warmth of the memories tugging at something buried deep. “I don’t do stuff like this anymore. Feels silly, I guess.”
“It’s not silly,” he says quietly. “It’s living.”
Something in his tone makes me look at him, really look at him. There’s no judgment in his expression, just a quiet sincerity that makes my chest ache.
“Living, huh?” I murmur, more to myself than him.
“Yeah,” he says, his smile soft. “And you should do more of it.”
I don’t answer, but his words stick with me as we finish our hot chocolate and start to build a lopsided snowman. He tells me stories about his childhood in Laval, about cracking his mom’s kitchen window with a snowball that was a little too hard packed, and how no matter the trouble he got into, she was always there making hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.
And for a little while, I forget to be afraid.
We work diligently, trading stories of how we grew up in the same country, but on opposite sides, discussing some of the differences in culture, food and weather.