My thigh muscles are still pretty tight and sore, but the bath the night before helped. Greyston runs downstairs to grab me a glass of water and some ibuprofen before we hop in the shower. Now, normally, showering together usually leads to some pretty hot sex, but not today. My legs are too sore for that, unfortunately.
After we get dressed, we head down to the kitchen for lunch, and while we eat, Greyston suggests an afternoon stroll around the area. I’m told it’s not too cold today, and he assures me the sun will help ease the bite of the winter air. It sounds like a wonderful afternoon, and after we’re finished cleaning up, we put our jackets, boots, mittens, and hats on and head out. Greyston leads me down the trails around the cabin, and I’m, once again, left awestruck with the beauty of this winter wonderland. The way the frost-covered branches shimmer in the sunlight, the crunch of the crisp white snow, and the smell of the cool, Canadian air all add to the beauty. I understand why Greyston might be drawn here year after year—why anyone might be drawn here.
“I’m sorry I went overboard yesterday,” I say, breaking the silence, my breath turning to fog in the cold air.
“It’s fine. I should’ve been paying closer attention. Besides, we have another five nights to make up for it…” Greyston leans in, kissing me just below my ear. A shiver rushes through me, but it has nothing to do with the weather, and everything to do with Greyston. “And I plan to take full advantage of that fact.”
I laugh. “I’m sure you do.”
Greyston’s attention is pulled from me as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He glances at the call display before turning it off and placing it back in his pocket, ignoring whomever it is.
“Who was it?” I inquire, realizing after the fact that I’m being nosey.
“Gemma. She’s probably just wondering if we’re going to meet up at the resort today.” He pauses, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, and pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “I’ll call her when we get back home.”
Inhaling deeply, I hug him around the waist as we walk, and I bask in the sound of him calling the cabin home. While it’s not our home, it definitely feels like it could be.
We return to the cabin about an hour later, and I’m about to head into the house when Greyston stops me at the foot of the stairs. “Where are you going?”
“I thought we were going inside?” I said, pointing over my shoulder.
Greyston snickers, shaking his head. “It’s snowman-building time, sweetheart. The snow is perfect for it today.”
I hop off the bottom step, with a wide smile, excited because I’ve never made a snowman before. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
Greyston is adamant we attempt to build the biggest snowman we can, so while he rolls the bottom portion, I get started on the middle. We wind up using almost all of the snow in the front yard, brown pieces of dead grass peeking through what’s left. It looks unappealing, but I’m assured it will be snowing by tonight, so the yard should be back to it’s majestic winter wonderland by morning.
Placing the head on proves to be difficult since the first two pieces stand well over a foot or two taller than Greyston, but he finally succeeds before running inside to grab a few final touches—a hat, scarf, mittens, and a carrot—while I searched for rocks and sticks for the face and arms.
Once the arms are in place, I stand next to Greyston, wondering how we’re going to apply the face and hat. I look over to find him crouching in the snow. “Hop on my shoulders. I’ll give you a boost.”
I’m nervous, but only because of my magnetism to disaster. Thankfully, Greyston is careful to keep me balanced while I affix the stones in place and put the hat on top of its head, then he lets me down, and we stand back to admire our creation.
“Hey.” I turn to acknowledge Greyston. “Go stand by the snowman. I want a picture.” I comply, skipping through the front yard and posing with our creation, and then we head inside for some hot apple cider.
“Have a seat,” Greyston instructs, pulling an island stool out for me, then he rounds the island and gathers everything he’ll need to make our cider. He puts the apple juice in a pot on the stove, and then comes over to the island to face me while he preps the rest. “How are your muscles?”
“Good, actually. There’s still a little discomfort, but it’s really not that bad.” I lean on the counter to get a better look at him while he slices an orange and then cuts an apple in half, inserting cloves in a very precise manner through the skin. “Your mom teach you this?”