Her eyes narrow dangerously, but then she pauses mid-throw. The fight drains from her posture, replaced by determination as she drops to her knees in the snow.
"Fine," she says, already packing the loaded snowball into an even tighter ball. "A snowman build it is. Prepare to lose, Scott."
I grin, feeling seventeen again. "In your dreams, Gertrude."
Chapter Six
Mia
I'm crouched in the snow, my hands already numb as I pack the base of what's going to be the most architecturally superior snowman Iron Ridge has ever seen.
The snow falls heavier now, fat flakes that drift down like confetti in the glow of the parking lot lights.
"You're overthinking it," Ryder calls from his side of the lot, where he's clearly just mashing snow together with zero artistic vision.
"I'm not overthinking anything. I'm creating art." I sit back on my heels, surveying my work. "Unlike some people who are just... making a lump."
"A lump?" He straightens up, mock offense written all over his face. Snow clings to his dark hair, and his cheeks are pink from the cold. "This is going to be a masterpiece. You're just jealous because yours looks like it's having an identity crisis."
I glance at my snowman's slightly lopsided middle section and frown.
"It's... architectural. Modern. You're a man. You wouldn't understand."
"Uh-huh." He's grinning now, that boyish smile that used to make my heart skip beats. And apparently still does. "Need help?"
"I don't need—" But as I try to lift the head I've been working on, it immediately crumbles in my hands. "Shit."
Ryder's laugh echoes across the empty parking lot.
"Come here, Miss Stubborn. Let me show you how it's done."
Before I can protest, he's beside me, his hands covering mine as he helps me pack the snow properly.
His body heat radiates through his jacket, and I catch that scent that does wicked things to my insides. His broad chest presses close, muscles evident even through his winter coat.
I try not to stare at his strong jawline or the way his biceps flex as he moves, but it's impossible not to notice how perfectly built he is, how his athletic frame towers over my smaller one in a way that makes heat pool in my belly.
"See? You have to pack it tighter," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "Like this."
His hands guide mine, and suddenly we're not talking about snowmen anymore.
"There," he says softly, but he doesn't move away. "Now it's perfect."
I turn my head to thank him, and suddenly his face is inches from mine. Those warm hazel eyes that used to be my everything are focused on my lips, and for a heartbeat, the world stops.
Kiss me. Please just kiss me and put me out of my misery.
But then my brain kicks in, reminding me of the years of hurt, and I scramble backward so fast I nearly topple over.
"We should, um." I gesture vaguely at our half-built snowmen. "Finish the competition."
He nods and returns to his side of the lot, attacking his snowman, packing snow like he's trying to punch his frustration into submission.
We work in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds our breathing and the softplopof snow hitting the ground.
It's peaceful in a way I haven't felt in... God, maybe years.
"So," Ryder says eventually, adding stick arms to his surprisingly decent snowman. "Eight years. That's a lot of time."
