After fetching the sketchpad and a pencil, she went back out to the hall and then moved cautiously down the stairs. It felt colder here, and she wondered if the house had a dual-zone heating system. If it did, she certainly had no idea how to operate it. Well, getting some hot water going would help to warm up the kitchen at least.
She entered the kitchen, and set down the sketchpad and pencil on the counter. On the stovetop she spied a bright red kettle — empty, of course — and she picked it up, then filled it with water before replacing it on the back burner. To one side of the refrigerator was the pantry, so she opened one of the doors, hoping she’d be able to find some tea. She didn’t spy any at first, but she did see canned beans and cunning little packets of pre-made sauces, so at least they wouldn’t completely starve if they did end up trapped here for a while. One cupboard over, she finally found a brand-new box of Darjeeling, still with the cellophane wrapper on it.
Despite herself, she smiled. How had Lucas known that was her favorite? She couldn’t recall ever mentioning it to him.
A bit more exploration led her to locate a nice sturdy mug of what looked like hand-fired and hand-painted earthenware. She wondered if it was the work of a local artisan, possibly someone in the Wilcox clan. It felt smooth and sturdy under her fingers, and she set it on the counter as she opened the box of tea and then dropped a bag into the mug.
A minute later, the kettle began to whistle. She lifted it from the burner as quickly as she could, since she really didn’t want to wake Lucas up if he still was asleep. Pausing, she listened, but didn’t hear anything. Not that that necessarily meant much; in a house this big, would she even hear him moving around?
With a shrug, she poured the hot water over the tea bag, then went to peer out the glass door that overlooked the deck. All was quiet, the skies overcast, the air completely still. She retrieved the sketchpad and flipped to a fresh page, taking her pencil and roughing in the tall, slender shapes of the trees, the deck railings blunted by snow. The trees weren’t so difficult, but she couldn’t quite get the snow-topped railings right. They kept looking like flattened marshmallows.
“You never told me you were an artist.”
She started and glanced over her shoulder. Lucas stood a few feet away, fully dressed, although his hair still looked a little damp. His jaw was dusted with dark stubble, which meant he probably hadn’t shaved.
“I’m not an artist,” she said carefully, closing the sketchpad. “Connor’s an artist. I just like to draw things.”
He came around the kitchen island and plucked the pad from her fingers before she could protest, then flipped it back open to the sketch she’d been working on. “It’s good.”
“No, it’s not. It’s just doodling.”
With a grin, he said, “Margot, the weird loops and squiggles I put on the pad by the phone when I’m talking to someone are doodles. This is way beyond that.”
While a part of her enjoyed hearing the praise, another was more than a little irritated by the way he’d just taken the sketchpad without so much as a by-your-leave. “I don’t think so, but you’re entitled to your opinion.”
“Thank you. And my opinion is that you’re good.” He handed the sketchpad back to her and headed over to where the coffeemaker sat. “I see you found the tea.”
“I did,” she replied, recalling that it was probably past time to pull the tea bag out of the mug. She hurried over and began to extract it, then paused.
“The trash is under the sink,” Lucas offered, clearly guessing the reason for her hesitation.
“Thanks.” As she disposed of the used-up bag, he went to the refrigerator and pulled out a quart of milk. “Do you doctor your tea as badly as you do coffee?”
“Not quite to that extreme, but yes, I do take milk.” She approached him, and he extended the carton to her. Maybe it was an accident, or maybe it was on purpose, but his fingers brushed against hers as she took it, and a little thrill went through her.
Ignoring that unwelcome frisson, she poured some milk into her tea, then asked, “Sugar?”
“Far left side of the pantry.”
As Margot fetched it, he busied himself with getting the coffeemaker going. The domesticity of the scene just seemed to underscore for her how odd the situation was. They’d kissed, but they certainly hadn’t slept together. Was this a date…an assignation…a friendly sleepover? She had no idea anymore.
She cleared her throat. “Do you think the roads are plowed yet?”
He slanted an amused glance in her direction. “What, planning a quick getaway?”