Frosted (a novella)

Chapter 5

Her pants had been draped before the fire for an hour now, and her phone battery was almost dead. It didn't matter. Her signal wasn't very strong or reliable with the storm raging outside. She was able to retrieve an e-mail from Addy, apologizing again for playing matchmaker, and wishing her a wonderful weekend. There were several others from friends and two from the hospital, asking if she'd chair the Annual Spring Ball. But New York seemed a million miles away from her nest on a couch in the middle of the woods during a flash blizzard. She set the phone on the rustic coffee table in front of the sofa and pulled the slipping blanket up a little to better cover herself.

After their very awkward exchange, Mr. Bradshaw had taken off her sock and bandaged up her ankle without a word, without looking at her, and Grace had endured his stoicism with her own quiet discontent. He'd handed her two Advil without making eye contact and found an unopened can of Root Beer in the snack bar cabinet and placed it on the table within reaching distance. Then he'd retired to the little office, drawing the line between "the guest" and "the help" without uttering a word.

Every twenty minutes or so, he'd come out and poke at the fire, adding another log, but he didn't look at her or say anything, and as the minutes ticked by with the snow still gusting outside, she felt worse and worse about the way she'd treated him, how she'd inadvertently accused him of complimenting her only to charm his way into her wallet.

If she was wary, it was only because she had reason.

A year after Harold had died, the unexpected and unwanted attention had surprised Grace: widower friends of her late husband, single brothers and cousins of her friends, an aging actor and a respected politician...all had pursued Grace at one time or another. They were—all of them—after her fortune, and Grace knew this because she wasn't beautiful, she had little in common with most of them and actual chemistry with none. They simpered and smirked at her, carefully agreeing with her at every turn and making it seem as though her interests were also their own. She'd only met one or two eligible, genuinely nice bachelors, who could have slipped into Harold's place very easily. One, in fact, was Stewart Whitman, with whom Grace could probably have spent many respectful, companionable years. And maybe she would have accepted Stewart eventually if she'd never come to The White Deer Inn and never come face-to-face with Tracy Bradshaw.

Yet here she was, trapped in a cabin with said Tracy Bradshaw, who had impacted her life so astonishingly in the course of a few short hours. A burly ski shop manager who carried her in his arms like she weighed nothing and bossed her around like no one had ever dared. A man with sno-cone colored eyes and deep laugh lines. A man she barely knew, but to whom she was drawn, nonetheless. So, why was she pushing him away with all her might?

He's simply not an appropriate choice for you, she reasoned.

A mountain man from upstate New York and a rich widow from Manhattan? It was absurd. They couldn't possibly be a match. But, after all, she wasn't husband-hunting here in the woods with Tracy Bradshaw, was she? No. This was just an unaccountable twist of fate. Couldn't she loosen up enough to enjoy him for a few hours? Couldn't she let her heart and belly flutter in that hot, delicious way she thought she'd never experience? Couldn't she allow herself the excitement of his company so that she'd recognize these feelings again if she ever happened to meet her "future someone"?

For heaven's sake, Grace, she thought. Get out of your own way and enjoy him!

Every moment that they shared the compact space without speaking felt like a wasted opportunity and finally she couldn't stand it anymore. A quick vision of Tracy kissing Hepburn popped into her head as he stalked back into the room to tend the fire, and she heard the words tumble out of her mouth,