Page 35

“What’s going on?” she asked, turning to Christopher.

Before he could answer, Jackson appeared at their side, wiping his hands on his apron. His expression was serious now as he looked at them.

“Families on the outskirts of town don’t have power,” he explained quietly. “Some of them don’t have fireplaces or wood stoves. We’ve decided to supply meals—hot food, coffee, whatever we can manage. Get some warmth into them, at least.” He paused, looking between Layla and Christopher. “Do you two want to help?”

Layla didn’t hesitate. “Of course. What do you need us to do?”

Jackson’s face broke into a grateful smile. “Right now? We need the front walk shoveled so that there’s a clear path to load up food and supplies to take out to the families. Think you can handle that?”

“Absolutely,” Christopher said, already turning back toward the door.

Layla followed him outside, where Jackson pointed them toward a couple of shovels leaning against the side of the building. The cold hit her again, a sharp bite to the wind, but it didn’t feel as bad as before. She still felt as if some of the warmth from inside was clinging to her, and she had a sense of purpose that she hadn’t had a few minutes ago. It felt good, she realized.

She grabbed a shovel and set to work.

The snow was deep, and heavy, the labor a lot more physical than anything she was used to doing. Spin class and yoga hadn’t prepared her for this, she thought ruefully after ten or so minutes, but she was determined. She attacked the walkway with fierce concentration, clearing the path one shovelful at a time. Sweat began to gather at the small of her back despite the cold, and she was out of breath before long, her muscles protesting.

But she kept going. This felt like it mattered. Families were without power, heat, food. If she could do something, anything, to help, then she was going to do it.

She was so focused on her task that she didn’t see the snowball until it hit her directly in the shoulder.

It exploded in a shower of white powder that dusted her coat and sent ice crystals down the back of her neck. She gasped with surprise and spun around.

Christopher stood a few feet away, his shovel abandoned, his hands already forming another snowball. His expression was one of pure, unrepentant mischief, his eyes dancing with laughter.

“You did not just—” Layla started, but she didn’t finish the sentence.

Instead, she dropped her shovel, bent down, and scooped up a handful of snow. Her fingers worked quickly, packing it tight, and then she let it fly.

It caught Christopher in the chest. He staggered back dramatically, clutching at the spot like he’d been mortally wounded.

“Oh, it’s on now,” he said, grinning.

Within seconds, a snowball fight ensued.

Layla ducked behind a snowdrift, working frantically to gather another snowball. Christopher was faster, his throws more accurate, but she was scrappy, darting out from cover to launch her attacks before diving back to safety. Snow flew through the air in white arcs as their laughter filled the air, punctuated by grunts as snowballs hit them both. Layla’s hat flew off as she dodged one of Christopher’s throws, and she didn’t even care, too caught up in the joy of the moment to worry about the cold.

She managed to land a particularly good shot right on Christopher’s cheek, and he sputtered, wiping snow from his eyes. She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe, and as she doubled over, he charged at her.

He caught her around the waist, and they both went down, tumbling into a snowbank in a tangle of limbs, both of them still laughing. They rolled, tossing handfuls of snow at one another until they finally came to a stop, tangled up in each other, looking in each other’s eyes with their faces flushed from exertion and cold.

The laughter slowly quieted as they stayed there for a long moment, Layla’s heart suddenly beating far too fast for reasons that had nothing to do with the physical activity. Christopher’s face was close to hers, close enough that she could count the snowflakes caught in his eyelashes. His breath came out in white puffs that mingled with hers in the space between them.

Layla felt something shift inside her chest. The thought of leaving Fir Tree Grove—of leaving him—made her heart ache unexpectedly.

She’d only been here a few days, she thought. Less than a week. It was ridiculous to feel this way, to feel this attached. And yet, looking at Christopher, she couldn’t deny what she was feeling.

She didn’t know if she really wanted to make that flight.

The realization hit her with the force of another snowball, stealing her breath. Somehow this charming, kitschy, over-the-top, fluff-filled town had gotten under her skin, and Christopher had found her way into her heart.

She didn’t think she wanted to leave him.

But she had to, she told herself. Her life was in the city. Her job, her apartment, her family, her friends—everything that made up who she was existed somewhere else. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

Before her emotions could run away with her and she did something foolish like close the distance between them and kiss him the way he’d kissed her the night before, she cleared her throat and squirmed out of his arms, standing up and brushing snow off her clothes.

“I should—” Her voice cracked, and she had to clear her throat again. “I’m going to see if they need help inside.”