In From the Cold by Meg Adams Page A

me.” His dimple was back. I really liked that dimple. “Please? I promise you won’t have to tie my boots or wipe my nose or anything.” He turned on his lopsided grin.
    Between that grin and his dimple, how could I refuse?
    “I don’t know. It’s my first free afternoon, and I’m not sure you’re completely trained yet.” I looked him up and down as if I were debating, then crossed my arms and leaned toward him. “If I say it’s time to go, we go. Deal?”
    “Deal.” He held out his hand, palm up, then grinned at me. “We don’t have to spit in our palms before we shake, do we?” He started to spit.
    “Eww. Stop that.” I smacked him on the shoulder. “See. You’re already misbehaving.”
    He waggled his eyebrows. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” He nodded toward the window, where the mountain loomed. “So were you going to ski?”
    “That thing?” I shivered. “No way. I can barely handle the baby slope at the Homestead and most of that on my butt. I’m not that crazy.”
    “What about cross country? Would you like that?”
    “Do they have trails for that too?”
    He nodded.
    “And I don’t have to go up or come down that monster?”
    He nodded again, a broad smile lighting his face.
    “Then sure, I’m game.”
    We walked over to the equipment room, got outfitted, and I soon found myself following Drake down a pristine forest path. Our skis shushed through the snow, and we maintained a quiet, even pace. It was lovely.
    Neither of us said much. Once we saw a moose up the path, but it had moved on by the time we got there. A snowshoe hare darted by, and I was intrigued by its white coat, long ears and tail. The fir trees, the sun on the snow, the spectacular mountains, the crisp air, all braced me and made me feel even more alive. Reborn. Joyful.
    Drake plowed the path ahead, his skis gliding through the snow, his powerful legs and arms swinging in rhythm, graceful, almost dancing. His blue parka and red scarf were fixed in my sights, and I took mental snapshots of him to savor later. I knew there weren’t many more days to make memories—the house party was halfway over—and while I couldn’t risk my heart again, I’d decided to let myself enjoy my time with him. Or at least, I planned to try.
    He was not good looking in the same way as Jim, or model perfect like Mr. Ski-Slime, but there was something about Drake. He was confident, yes, and attractive, but in a healthy, open, out-of-doors way, and very masculine. It was hard to imagine him stuck behind a desk right now, as he thrust his powerful legs through the snow. A Patagonia model maybe, but not a CEO.
    “I’ll race you to the cabin!” He pointed to a small cabin three hundred yards ahead, a boyish grin on his face.
    “No fair. Your legs are too long.”
    “I’ll give you a head start.”
    “I don’t trust you. You’ll cheat.”
    His eyes clouded. “I never cheat.”
    “Oh, all right. You must like to lose then.” I brushed past him and swished up the trail. “Say when.”
    “When!” he yelled, superfast, and he was practically past me before I’d dug in my first pole. He held back until we were within fifty yards or so, but was well before me at the cabin and hardly out of breath.
    “Never cheat, hunh?” I panted.
    “Well, almost never. And I did give you a head start and said ‘When’.”
    “Semantics.”
    He grinned, and I felt that tug in my stomach again. He stepped up on the porch, his skis still on.
    “Wanna go in?”
    “What is this place?” I looked around. The cabin looked like a Christmas card, all natural wood that glowed like honey, with a huge wreath on the door and drifts of clean snow against its sides. It was cozy, idyllic.
    “A rest cabin. You can get a hot drink, warm up, use the facilities, take shelter if you need to. Come see.”
    “Sure. A break sounds good.”
    We took off our boots and skis and left them on the porch, stepping inside in our sock feet. The cabin was charming. A