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“I think we need to make one area for both of us that is near the heat.”
Erin recognized the voice. The corporate crisis attorney had taken charge, and Erin suspected Claire usually got exactly what she wanted when she used that voice. She found the confidence unreasonably attractive, which was unhelpful given that they had just agreed to behave.
“Fine. But I have even better supplies than sofa cushions.”
She disappeared into the stockroom and returned carrying the emergency kit she kept for mountain winters: two fleece blankets, a pair of wool blankets still in their plastic, and a thick quilted moving pad she used for shipments. She gathered every throw pillow from the consultation room and carried them to the loveseat. Claire had already dragged the padded floor rug closer to the stove and laid the loveseat cushions across it in a neat row.
They worked without needing to coordinate. Erin spread the moving pad over the cushions to create a single, even surface. Claire smoothed the wrinkles twice, then pressed a palm against the makeshift mattress to test it. Erin layered the fleece blankets on top, then unfolded the wool ones and draped them across the foot of the makeshift bed. The result resembled a padded nest built by two women who probably had very different ideas about interior design but shared an interest in not freezing.
Erin stepped back and surveyed the blankets and cushions. “This might actually work.”
Claire knelt beside their makeshift bed. “It will. Whether either of us can stand upright tomorrow is another question.”
“The moving pad deserves full credit. It’s protected hundreds of vibrators from shipping damage. Supporting two human spines should be well within its capabilities.”
Claire’s quiet laugh rose through the dim room. She slipped off her boots and set them together beside the stove, lining them up precisely. Even stranded overnight in a boutique filled with vibrators on Christmas Eve, the woman aligned her footwear.
Erin pulled off her ankle boots and dropped them wherever they landed.
They lay down on their makeshift bed side by side, fully clothed, and Erin drew the blankets over them both. A generous strip of cushion separated their bodies. The wood in the stove crackled and popped. Wind gusted against the windows and retreated.
Neither of them closed their eyes.
Minutes passed. Erin listened to Claire’s breathing and knew from its rhythm that she was wide awake.
“Are you warm enough?”
Claire turned her head, sending her dark hair across the pillow. “Almost.”
Erin lifted her arm and rested it open on the blanket between their bodies, palm upward. It was a clear invitation Claire could accept or ignore.
Claire shifted across the careful distance and settled against Erin’s side. Her head found the curve between Erin’s shoulder and neck as though the space had been designed for precisely that purpose. Erin’s arm closed around her, and Claire’s hand came to rest flat against Erin’s chest, fingers spread above her heartbeat.
Claire relaxed against Erin’s body and let herself be held, and Erin drew her closer. She had talked about intimacy professionally for years, explained its mechanics, celebrated its importance, and coached women toward it. But Claire’s slow breathing against her neck and the unguarded weight of her resting in Erin’s arms made all those practiced words feel inadequate. Erin wanted Claire’s desire. Just as much, she wanted the quiet trust of being the person Claire felt safe enough to rest against.
Claire’s breathing lengthened. Her fingers relaxed against Erin’s chest, and her body grew heavy in the boneless way of genuine sleep.
Erin stayed awake. She listened to the storm pounding the glass, the stove consuming wood, and the quiet, steady sound of Claire beside her. She pressed her lips against Claire’s hair and thought about roads staying closed and mornings taking their time.
Chapter Six
Claire woke slowly to cold air against her face and Erin’s warmth along her back. The fire had dwindled to embers during the night, leaving the boutique beyond the blankets bitingly cold.
Erin’s arm curved around Claire’s waist, her hand resting loosely against her stomach. Her body followed the length of Claire’s back, and their legs nestled together beneath the blankets.
Claire stayed perfectly still. Sometime during the night, Erin’s commitment to behaving responsibly had apparently turned into spooning.
A sliver of light pressed through the snow-crusted windows. The generator could be heard behind the wall. Beyond the glass, the storm had spent itself. She could see the suggestion of tree branches and the heavy stillness of new snow on every surface.
Erin’s fingers twitched against her stomach. Claire covered Erin’s hand and closed her eyes again. She could not remember the last time waking beside another person had felt this peaceful.
In twenty-three years of marriage, she had woken beside Andrew thousands of times. Toward the end, they slept like continents drifting apart on the same mattress, with his back to hers, a careful channel of cool sheets between them, each body maintaining its sovereign territory. She had not been held in her sleep for so long that the sensation felt almost medicinal. It felt as though some neglected system had quietly restarted during the night and was now circulating something dangerously unfamiliar through her bloodstream.
Erin’s breathing changed. First there was a deeper inhale, and then a slight shift of her hips. Her hand pressed flat, then lifted, then settled again as if confirming what it had found.
“Morning.” The word arrived rough and half-formed against Claire’s hair.
“Good morning.”
