Frosted (7 page)

She shrugged.

“Give yourself a break and tell me what you like to do,” he insisted.

“Read. Especially by a fire.”

“Me too,” he said, his hands still rubbing her foot.

“Mmm. Anything in the fresh air: Snowshoeing. Cross country skiing. Downhill skiing.”

“And in the summer?”

“Anything on a lake,” she said. “Swimming, canoeing. We had a sailboat up at Squam Lake in New Hampshire.” She grinned nostalgically. “Happy summers.”

“There are a couple of terrific lakes here. You were very close to one when you twisted your ankle.”

Grace remembered the wide expanse of white she faced while talking to Miss Meyers. “Of course! I’ll have to come back to visit it in—in the summertime.”

She didn’t mean for her words to be suggestive, but they sounded desperate somehow, like she was trying to make a date with him in the future. Her cheeks flamed red, almost painfully, as they sat in silence. But, when she finally found the courage to look into his eyes, he didn’t look put off, or like he was embarrassed to be chased by some lonely widow from New York. He stared at her, a sweet smile making his eyes sparkle in the firelight as he held her foot against his chest.

“Will you?”

“Will I what?” she whispered.

“Will you come back, Red?” he asked, holding his breath.

She nodded, offering him a shy smile which answered his own.

Grace wasn’t sure how long they’d been dozing, but when her eyes fluttered open, the cabin was almost dark, but for the rosy glow of the orange and lavender embers in the fireplace. It was cooler too, without the raging flames, but still tucked in her blanket with Tray nestled against her, she was more comfortable than she could ever remember.

Tears pricked her eyes as she realized that she’d probably slept beside Tray for several hours. In the whole of her life, she’d only kissed Harold, only slept next to Harold, and now, suddenly, there was another man’s name on each of those lists. She didn’t know why it made her sniffle softly, but it did. Maybe because one didn’t anticipate so many firsts at fifty-six, let alone two whoppers in one day.

“Grace?”

She propped her head on her elbow to look up at him. “Mmm?”

“You cold?”

“I’m okay,” she said, her voice soft and a little ragged from emotion.

“Hey,” he said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “Hey, now. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I’m ridiculous.”

He swung his legs over the side of the couch and slid up the slick leather until his hip was pressed up against her belly. His hand landed softly on her upturned cheek.

“You’re crying.”

She sniffled again, dropping her elbow and laying back. As she stared at the dark rafters on the ceiling, she felt a tear fall from her eye and slide into her hair.

“Remember what you said before? About the second year being the worst?”

“Mm-hm,” he murmured, catching the next tear that tried to slip down her cheek, and gently rubbing it away.

“In the third year, you start finding your footing again. In the fourth year…you realize that you don’t know anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Before you, I’d only slept beside one man, kissed one man…” Her breath hitched. “I’ve only ever made love to one man. And now he’s gone. Am I expected to pick up where I left off at twenty-two? That’s how little experience I have with this. That’s how much I’ve missed.”

“No, Grace. No. You haven’t missed anything.” His voice was tender as he took her hands and pulled her up against him until her chin rested on his shoulder. Wrapping her up in his arms, his strong chest pushed into her soft one as he took a long, deep breath. When he spoke again, his words fell soft and welcome in her ear. “You’ve lived. You’ve loved a man and shared his bed. Had children. Maybe grandchildren too. And no, you’re not supposed to pick up where you left off the day before you met your husband. You’re just supposed to be whoever you are right now. Today.”

“I hardly know who that is.”

“How great is that?” he asked softly. “To have a second chance to find out who you are. A blank page for the next few decades that you can write as you go along. Who do you want to be, Grace?”

The question reverberated in her ears, too big, too profound to tackle. She’d been a rich little girl, then a college student, then a teacher, then a wife, then a mother, then a grandmother, then a widow. Who was she now? Who did she want to be?

She had no idea.

All she knew, right this minute, was that she wanted more time with Tray. She wanted to talk to him, to listen to his voice, to touch him, to feel him beside her. She’d only known him for a handful of hours, but the only thing written on that blank page was the name Tray.

Leaning into him, she tilted her head to the side, resting her cheek on his shoulder, her lips a breath away from the warm skin of his neck.

“You’ll think I’m throwing myself at you,” she whispered.

“No, I won’t. We’re hurtling toward each other,” he said softly. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

His words swept through her, making her brave. She arched forward a little, pressing her lips against the throbbing pulse in his throat and listening for the catch of his breath. She felt his lungs, full and frozen, push against her for a long moment, but when her tongue darted out to taste his skin, his breath surged against her ear in a hot rush.

“Grace,” he groaned, his voice ragged and rough.

Never having initiated an encounter like this before, she closed her eyes and stopped thinking, just allowing her body do whatever felt good, whatever felt right. Her hands rested on his thighs and she slid them up to his waist, pulling at his loose shirt and slipping her hands inside. His muscles tightened under her fingertips and his breath was shallow, like panting or pain, near her ear. She skimmed her lips to his jaw, under his ear, which she licked and kissed, her tongue flicking across the hot skin that prickled her sensitive lips with a day-old beard.

Suddenly his arms tightened around her and he shifted his face to demand her lips—hungrily, desperately—with a growl of victory as he claimed them. His tongue plunged into her mouth and she arched her back as far as it would go, slamming her body into his as his hands rose to the back of her head, cradling her skull, and holding it in place as he ravaged her mouth.

Grace had never been kissed like this before. She hadn’t known that kissing like this was even possible. Her fingers, splayed against the hot, bare skin of his waist, flexed then curled, digging into the firm flesh as he lowered her to the couch, carefully rolling on top of her.

“Is this okay?” he asked roughly, tearing his mouth away from hers for just a moment.

She whimpered in protest, abandoning his waist to palm his cheeks, drawing his mouth down to hers frantically, feeling her need—a terrible, growing, rolling need—for him building in her belly, in her core, all over her body. Her skin longed for his—yearned for every part of him to touch every part of her, and still, somehow, she knew it wouldn’t be enough.

She moaned into his mouth as he ran his hands down the sides of her body, cupping her breasts through the thick wool sweater, his thumbs seeking nipples they couldn’t possible find through the layers between them.

His tongue slid against hers as his feet dug into the couch and he surged forward gently, into her, against her, his hardness pressing intimately into her softness. Her knees bent to cradle him, her legs sliding up instinctively and then suddenly—

“Oh!” she whimpered. “Ooosh!”

Forgetting about her injury, she’d tried to twist her ankles toward each other around his hips, and managed to wrench the one that had already been twisted. She froze beneath him, pain slicing up her leg unforgivingly as her ankle protested the movement.

He drew his head back, panting, then twisted his neck to look at her foot, resting limply on the back of his leg.

“Sorry,” she half-laughed, half-sobbed, all too aware that they were in an incredibly intimate position with each other and wondering what would have happened if her ankle hadn’t gotten in the way.

“Not as sorry as I am.” He turned back to face her, his smile telegraphing humor and regret. “Are you okay?”

“Unfortunately, I think I should elevate it,” she said, dropping her hands from his cheeks, and falling back against the couch in frustrated surrender. She slid her foot back down his leg and he rolled off of her carefully, kneeling beside her on the ground.

“What can I do, Red?”

“Give me an Advil?” she suggested, flicking her glance down to the bulge in his jeans as she sat up. “And a rain check?”

He chuckled softly, standing up and turning away from her to find some Advil in the little office.

“What time was your dinner date?” he called. “With Stew Witless?”

“Stewart Whitman,” she said, concealing a grin, loving his little show of jealousy. “Um…eight?”

“It’s seven,” said Tray. “I still have a little bit of battery left. You should call him and cancel.”

“What a shame.”

“
Yeah. A real shame
,” Tray mumbled to himself.

“Is it still snowing?” called Grace, trying not to sound
too
hopeful.

“Hard,” he said, placing the packet of Advil and his phone next to her on the couch before turning to tend to the fire. “Call him and cancel. We won’t leave until morning.”

He said this quietly, with his back to her, and she wondered—just for a moment—if he was lying about the snow. She wondered if it was possible to go, but if he wanted her to stay. It was dark out, so there was no way for her to know for sure unless she hopped over to the door. Maybe the snow
had
already stopped, but he wanted these precious hours alone with her as much as she wanted them with him. The longing in her heart made her question the wisdom of spending more time with him. Did they have any chance of a future after today? No, she thought. Their lives were simply too different. But she hushed her worries. For tonight, just for tonight, she wanted him all to herself, and she hoped that’s what he wanted too.

“I’m glad,” she murmured, staring at the solid breadth of his back.

“Me too,” he said softly, without turning around. “Grace. Aw, Grace, I don’t know where the heck this can go, but I’m not ready for it to end yet.”

“Me neither,” she whispered.

He turned to look at her, his face a mixture of longing and regret, hope and despair. Futility. Surrender. “Will you call him and cancel?”

“Yes.” She nodded and his shoulders relaxed as he turned back around.

Reaching for the half-empty root beer, she tore open the Advil and washed them down. Her stomach growled fiercely with the tease of nourishment and she realized that she hadn’t eaten since her pastry this morning.

“You hungry?” he asked, then grinned. “Silly question…I’m fairly sure your stomach just woke a few bears from hibernation.”

“If I say yes will you show off by heading out into the storm to forage for us?”

He pivoted to look at her, his eyes relaxed now, twinkling with amusement. “Forage? Why, up here in the mountains, ma’am, I prefer to wrestle for my venison.”

He laughed, shaking his head at her.

She chuckled right along with him. “You’re welcome to a sip of my root beer, but other than that…What do you suggest?”

“Housekeeping cleaned out the kitchen to discourage varmint, but I found some s’mores fixings in the office. When was the last time you had a s’more, Miz Grace?”

“Not since I was a girl.”

“Then it’s time,” said Tray, winking at her. “It’s long past time to have one again.”

***

As Tray stoked the fire in preparation for s’mores, Grace picked up his phone to call Stewart.

“You’ve reached The White Deer Inn. This is reservations. How can I help you?”

“Stewart Whitman’s room, please,” she said.

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

And then a moment later, Stewart’s voice. “Hello?”

“Stew, it’s Grace.”

“Grace! How good to hear your voice! I was just about to go downstairs to meet you. Shall I come by your room instead?”

She grimaced at his eager tone. “No. No, Stew, I’m so sorry. I won’t be able to have dinner tonight.”

“Why not?”

“I had an accident, I’m afraid. The stupidest thing. A skiing mishap—”

“We’ll order room service. I’ll come to you. Take care of the little patient.” He paused. “I have something important that I want to ask you.”

Grace looked up to see Tray standing against the flagstones beside the fire, arms folded over his chest, staring at her intently.

“No, Stew, I’m afraid…”

Though he didn’t move a muscle, Tray’s eyes held hers with a searing intensity.

“Yes, Grace?”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

She realized then that Tray had been holding his breath, because she heard the short exhalation and watched his chest fill again.

“Not possible? Dinner?”

“Dinner. Your important question. None of it’s possible. You’re a good man, Stew. But I have thirty or forty years left,” she said, holding Tray’s eyes as he uncrossed his arms, as his chest filled and emptied again, his skin a godlike golden in the firelight. “And I want to spend them with someone who…”

“Who what, Grace?”

Tray’s eyes searched hers in the dim light, and he took a step toward her. Then another, and another.

“Who makes me
feel
,” she continued in a breathless whisper.

“For heaven’s sake! Feel what?” asked Stewart.

“Everything,” she gasped, as Tray dropped to his knees beside her, reaching up to cup her face with his rough, warm hands.

“Well, Grace, I just don’t know what to—”

“Good-bye, Stew,” she murmured, pressing “End” and letting the phone drop to the couch beside her as Tray’s lips slammed into hers.