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“Hey, August.”
Julia stands in the doorway to the living room. Her blonde hair is in a loose ponytail, and I immediately think about pulling on her ponytail in Milan. The memory heats me. And treated to the sight of her in skintight black leggings, I’m suddenly not so annoyed to have her lurking around my house.
“What are you doing?”
“Reading,” I answer before flicking the page I’m on and glancing up to find her eyes fixed firmly on my face. “This is a book.”
She studies the cover. “Lean production. I didn’t take you for a just-in-time kind of guy,” she replies.
Apparently, she already knows all about Toyota’s production system—although I have no idea how and why she would.
Nonchalantly, she falls into a seat on the adjacent sofa. “And just so you know, your snark isn’t half as cute as you think it is.”
“Luckily, I have no interest in being cute.” I turn the page. “What do you want, Ridgeway?”
“Nothing.”
I scoff. “What have I said about lying?”
When I look up again, she’s staring out the window at the rising snowfall. She breathes out, surely trying to measure the height of the snow surrounding us, and I wonder if she has finally accepted the situation: She’s going to be here, with me, for a while.
When she faces me, she bites her lower lip. Not in a desirous way, but reluctant. “I get stir crazy,” she admits. I know her admission must be a severe understatement when she asks, “Can I go outside?”
Immediately, I wonder if we’re looking out of the same windows. “You want to go outside?”
“The snow is slowing.”
“It’s a quiet moment. It’ll come back.”
For once, she’s silent. She has no snarky response or witty quips about me being a weather demigod or a cloud warlock. Gentle disappointment passes over her instead; I can see it in her slumped shoulders. She’s telling the truth—and I’m struck by how much her disappointment dissatisfies me.
“Fine,” I relent, trying not to enjoy how her eyebrows gleefully shoot up when I give in. “But bundle up. We go as far as the porch. That’s it.”
Julia is beaming. “Really?”
“Yes, really. Hurry up.”
She practically leaps up and jogs out of the room, and by the time I’ve placed a bookmark in my book and put on a sweater, she’s already standing at the front door and fastening her boots.
Once we’re both sufficiently bundled and layered, I open the door to the cabin and we step outside. Immediately, the brutal chill slams into us, but Julia doesn’t seem to mind. She crosses her arms and walks to the railing, where a thick layer of snow has gathered on the wood.
Curious, I watch her from my spot by the door. I’ve stared at enough pictures of this woman to know she favors hot and humid places—the kind where she can take off her clothes and leave as little to the imagination as possible. And yet here she is, standing on my front porch and looking at the snow like the world is coated in diamonds.
When I join her by the railing, she glances in my direction, but quickly returns her focus to the storm around us.
“It’s so quiet,” she mentions. “I’ve never been somewhere so quiet in my life.”
I wait for her to insult it—as usual—but the scorn doesn’t come. In fact, she gives her head a small shake, like she’s not quite sure she believes what she’s seeing.
“You should put a chair out here,” she suggests, giving me her attention again. “Better yet, a swing.”
“A swing?”
“A porch swing,” she clarifies. “That’s a thing, right?”
“Sure. That’s a thing.”
“You definitely need one,” she continues. “Right over there. You could hang a porch swing and put an end table on each side so there’s somewhere to put drinks, phones, whatever.”
