Rm w/a Vu(129)

I talk to Dad a few minutes more before Greyston reappears with my wine and then retreats to the kitchen again to start dinner. I tell Dad all about the cabin and the weather before he tells me he has to let me go so he can get ready for work.

“Okay. Love you, Dad.”

“Love you, too, Jules. Here’s your mother,” he says, handing the phone off.

Mom and I talk for a bit while the air around me is infused with the smell of dinner. My stomach rumbles several times before I tell my mom that I should go help Geyston. After saying our goodbyes, I hang up the phone and set it on the end table, grabbing my half-full glass of wine and joining Greyston in the kitchen.

Making my way for the stove where Greyston is hard at work, I set the glass down on the counter next to his and wind my arms around his waist. I stretch up onto my tiptoes to peer over his shoulder at what he’s cooking, but it’s futile; he’s too darn tall, so I settle for kissing the skin above the neckline of his sweater. He seems to appreciate this, because he groans and reaches behind him with one hand to run it over my hip and ass.

“Careful,” he warns playfully. “Wouldn’t want me to burn dinner because you’ve distracted me, now would you?” He turns his head to look at me, and I push my bottom lip out into a mock-pout. This makes him laugh as he pats my backside lightly and returns his attention to dinner.

When he declares the meal done, I help add the finishing touches before we plate the chicken, steamed vegetables, and potatoes and sit next to each other at the dining room table. Greyston lights a couple of tall pillared candles and refills our wine glasses before pulling the shades back from the window so we can watch the fresh snow falling from the sky. Once again, I’m rendered speechless as I watch the already-thick blanket of snow growing, and a big part of me can’t wait to get outside tomorrow.

“I know I’m going to start sounding like a broken record,” I say, reaching over and placing my hand over his, “but this is so amazing. Thank you again for such a wonderful gift. You really are perfect.”

Greyston chuckles, giving my hand a squeeze. “While I appreciate that you think so, I’m far from perfect,” he tries to tell me, even though I have yet to see one thing that would tell me otherwise.

“If you say so,” I reply with an over-exaggerated eye-roll.

Dinner is phenomenal—which is no real surprise—and when we’re finished eating and cleaning up the kitchen together, Greyston suggests we relax in front of the fire. Now, I had snuggling on the couch in mind, but Greyston’s idea was, admittedly, much more romantic: he suggested we sit on the white faux-fur rug right in front of the fire with our wine while he showed me photos from past vacations. Originally, I thought it odd that there’d be pictures in their vacation home, but Greyston tells me that one of his favorite things to do as a kid before bed was to sit in front of the fire with his parents and a mug of hot cocoa and go through them. I’ve painted a sweet image in my head of a pint-sized, and very dark-haired, Greyston in his plaid flannel jammies, a hot chocolate moustache staining his upper lip, and a photo album nestled in his lap.

The temperature in the living room is rising, and I know that part of it is from being so close to the fireplace, but another factor is the proximity of my body to Greyston’s. I’m sitting facing the fire, with my right leg bent out to the side and my left bent in front of me, my foot flat on the ground, and Greyston is sidled up to my left side, running his fingers through the lengths of my hair. I shiver every time his fingers ghost through the strands, and he leans forward to kiss the spot below my ear.

Smiling, I take another sip of my wine; I’ve had a few glasses now, and am beginning to feel the effects of it as it makes my limbs tingle and feel weightless. “You’re distracting me,” I tell him, flipping another page in the album that rests on the floor in front of me. “Tell me about this one.”

Greyston laughs softly, rubbing his hand up and down my back as he peers at the picture I’m pointing at. In it, Greyston looks about ten, and he’s outside, covered in snow, with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen plastered on his face. His brown hair peeks out from beneath his winter hat, and his eyes are alight with happiness and excitement.

“That would be from…oh, about eighteen years ago,” he explains, scooting a little closer until his chest is pressed against my side. “We’d just gotten back from the resort, Mom was inside making some hot apple cider, and my dad and I were making a snowman out in the front yard.” Greyston reaches behind him and grabs the bottle of wine, filling both of our glasses again. “One thing led to another, and before I knew it, a snowball fight had broken out.” He laughs again as he recalls this memory. “Naturally, I excelled in sports at an early age.”