Page 11 of Winter Beginnings
“Come on, Bramble!” Rory called, laughing. She threw the ball lightly, sending it skidding across the powdery ground. The pup chased it, tail wagging like mad.
I crossed my arms, smiling at her pure delight. “He’s a natural fetcher.”
“Guess so.” She tossed the ball again. Then, seemingly on impulse, she scooped up a handful of snow, hurling it my way. It splattered harmlessly off my jacket.
“Oh, you did not just…” I shot her a mock glare, already reaching down to grab my own chunk of snow. She shrieked in feigned outrage, diving behind a shrub.
Soon, a flurry of hastily formed snowballs flew through the air. Bramble barked in confusion, scampering between us. Laughter echoed across the garden remnants, each flying snowball fueling the giddy sense of release. In the swirl of white, Rory yelped, skidding on a hidden patch of ice.
I lunged forward instinctively, catching her arm, but the momentum yanked me off balance. My boots lost traction, and I toppled backward—dragging her down with me. We landed with a muffled thud, soft snow cushioning most of the impact. I found myself half on top of her, chest pressed to hers, our breaths a ragged tangle in the cold air.
For a beat, neither of us moved. My heart thundered. Rory’s eyes widened, and her lips parted, forming a small, breathless “oh.” My pulse roared in my ears, and warmth surged low in my gut, intensifying with each second her body stayed beneath me. The adrenaline, the closeness, her feminine scent—I felt a hungry pull. What if we just gave in right now? The thought rushed through me, imagining how her soft curveswould feel under less snowy circumstances, how it would be if we were inside, undressed, letting this tension resolve itself in passion.
My gaze dropped to her mouth. She didn’t pull away. For a breathtaking moment, I thought I might close that distance, taste her lips, see if the spark we kept dancing around would finally ignite. Desire pulsed—raw, urgent. But a flicker of memory surfaced: she wasn’t ready before, and I would respect that.
I forced myself to draw back, rolling off to the side. We lay panting in the snow, the crisp air chilling my face, though my body still burned. Rory swallowed hard, cheeks flushed.
“I…I’m sorry,” I managed, pushing myself upright, offering a hand to help her stand. “Didn’t mean to flatten you.”
She let out a shaky laugh, sliding her hand into mine. “No harm. I’m fine.” For a moment, her eyes flickered with an unspoken need, but she masked it quickly. “Guess that’s enough snowball fighting.”
With that, she brushed off her coat, turning to fuss over Bramble. My chest ached, half disappointment, half relief. So close, I thought, swallowing the lingering heat. If she only knew how much I want her. But guilt continued to gnaw at me with the secret I was keeping.
Once we’d shaken the snow from our boots, we took refuge in the house’s foyer. Bramble, presumably exhausted from fetch and the short but frantic snowball fight, curled up on his dog bed we’d set in a corner. I busied myself wiping off the last of the slush, still replaying the sensation of Rory’s body pinned beneath mine.
She cleared her throat, arms folded around herself. “Thanks for the rescue,” she joked weakly, cheeks still a faint pink. “I almost face-planted into a drift.”
“No problem,” I replied, forcing a light tone. “You still owe me for pelting me with that killer snowball.”
Her lips twitched in a shaky smile. “Guilty as charged.” We both laughed, tension shimmering beneath the surface.
The rest of the afternoon passed in sporadic tasks. I did a final dump run, disposing of the last load of broken furniture, while Rory prepped a section of wallpaper to strip. Each time we crossed paths, our eyes caught briefly. My chest tightened with unspoken questions: If only I could tell her the truth—about Cyrus, about my real heritage. Would it change what’s happening between us? Or would it ruin any chance we have?
I resented the man who was my biological father for letting everything decay, for leaving behind a mess. Yet some part of me longed to understand the Cyrus Barrington who was once apparently vibrant—enough to appear in fancy galas with a wife. That photo album, now tucked safely in my truck, weighed on me like a secret record of my father’s real life.
Meanwhile, Rory—her every movement punctuated with a radiant excitement—made me crave closeness, but also fear how she might react to my big reveal. If she saw me as a liar or felt betrayed, I’d lose the fragile bond we were forging. Still, I couldn’t ignore the desire that stirred whenever I glimpsed her determined smile or caught a flash of her curves beneath her sweater. The near-miss in the snow left me throbbing with a need I tried to bury under physical labor and polite banter.
By late afternoon, our energy flagged. We agreed to pick up the next stage—more wallpaper stripping, rummaging for replacement tile—first thing tomorrow. Rory sighed, leaning onthe banister. “That’s enough for one day, I think. Bramble looks wiped out, and I’m not far behind him.”
I nodded, scanning the dim hallway. “Same. We made decent progress, anyway.”
As I grabbed my coat, Bramble scrambled up from his dog bed to investigate. Rory scooped him into her arms, murmuring endearments. My heart panged at the sweet sight. “I’ll head out,” I said softly, voice catching. “Thanks for the help—and sorry if I… you know, tackled you too hard earlier.”
She lowered her gaze, the corners of her lips curving. “It’s fine, Cass. Really.”
With that, I stepped closer, instincts screaming at me to bridge the gap. But respect for her boundaries held me back. She watched me a moment, exhaling quietly, as if she, too, felt a sliver of regret that we weren’t crossing that line just yet.
I forced a small grin. “Bright and early tomorrow, then?”
She smiled in return, hugging Bramble tighter. “I’ll be ready.”
Turning away, I slipped out the door. Cold air hit me like a slap, reminding me that a winter dusk in Wintervale waited outside. As I trudged to my truck, I replayed the day’s highlights—the playful snowball fight, that fiery moment when we fell into each other. One day, I’d have to come clean. But not yet. For now, I’d revel in the slow burn of our connection, hoping that when Rory Lancaster learned the truth, she wouldn’t turn me away.
Chapter Five
Rory
A fresh swirl of snow whirled against the windows as I nudged open the door to one of the bedrooms on the second floor. I’d been at this all morning—sorting, sweeping, pulling back old sheets from furniture that the estate’s owner had left behind. Each time I stepped into a new space in this house, I wondered what secrets hid in the desk drawers or tall wardrobes. Now, I strode across the room and flung open the curtains over the window, determined to let light shine again into this forgotten place. Beside the window was a writing table. A thick layer of dust coated its surface, enough that I suspected it might have been untouched for a long while, maybe even years. Something about the table’s weighty presence felt more significant than theusual castoffs, so I tugged open its single drawer. The handle stuck, but with a bit of effort, the drawer slid forward.