Snowman

by AC Netzel

A small smile lifts from his lips, he drops his arms to his side, walks toward the windows, and stands next to me. Staring outside, he observes the impressive wintry scene in silence.

  “Do you know when the snow is supposed to stop?” I ask.

  “When the clouds had enough.”

  “Can you give me a real answer?”

  “Sometime tonight.”

  “Do you think the airport is open?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “But it’ll reopen later, right? Once they plow and de-ice the planes.”

  “Probably not with a storm like this.”

  “But they have to,” I tell him.

  “Why?”

  “I’m going home tonight.” I purposely avoid eye contact by staring straight ahead.

  He turns to me and frowns. “You’re leaving?”

  Slowly, I nod.

  He’s quiet for a beat as he studies me, then turns back to the window and refocuses on the wintry scene outside.

  “Okay,” he says quietly.

  “That ought to do it.” Nick tosses a log in the fireplace. “Got to keep the fire going. You never know when the power’s going to go out.”

  “Don’t you own a generator? I’d think you’d have to—considering you live in a winter wonderland.”

  “Gave it to my aunt. They have their business to keep running. Overnight guests to consider. Their unit died, and they can’t afford to replace it. They won’t accept money from me, so I gave them mine. I lied and told them I bought a newer model. Haven’t had the chance to replace it.”

  “That was nice of you.”

  “I’d do anything for them.”

  “I’m going to stand here until my pants dry. I slipped in the snow.” I narrow my eyes. “Don’t give me a speech about my shoe choice, okay?”

  Amused, he shakes his head. “City girl and her city shoes. Is your suitcase in your car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll get it. You can change into something dry.”

  “Thanks, but you’ve already done enough. The fire will dry it out.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “Your call. I’m going back to what I was doing before you got here.” He walks toward the next room. When he reaches the archway, he glances back at me. “Make yourself comfortable. The television remote is on the table by the couch. Help yourself to whatever you want in the kitchen.”

  “Okay. Umm… Nick?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Thank you… for letting me stay here.”

  “No problem.” He disappears into the next room, leaving me alone with the fire, this spectacular view, and my wandering thoughts.

  Standing in front of the blazing fire, I watch the flames dance and sway in an unpredictable pattern. My body is warmed by the welcome heat radiating from the fireplace. The crackling of the wood soothes me like reassuring white noise, while the occasional sizzling snaps and pops startle me. Yin and yang… like the fire is bickering with itself. The scent of burning wood is comforting, reminiscent of a distant memory lodged somewhere in the back of my mind.

  I pull my cell phone out of my pants pocket. I’m grateful I didn’t shatter its screen when I fell. Pleasantly surprised that I’m getting Wi-Fi and he didn’t assign a password to use it, I log into my airline app and check my flight status.

  “Delayed,” I mumble to myself. “Well, it’s better than canceled.”

  It’s been twenty minutes, and I’m bored out of my mind sitting on the couch, scrolling through mindless articles at my usual go-to online reading spots. I could’ve written them better. Infinitely better. But writing didn’t pay the bills. So here I am, trapped in a snowy crackpot city with a handsome Lumberjerk who I think is trying to avoid me.

  The question is… is he avoiding me because he doesn’t want to hear my sales pitch… or because of our chemistry.

  It doesn’t matter. Neither are avoidable.

  Realizing I don’t have much time left to spare if I want to talk to Nick and the Jingle Belles before I fly out, I stand from the couch and hunt for him. Quietly, I walk into the next room and discover what an easy search this was. Nick is sitting with his back to me at a long dining room table. He looks like he’s deep into something, but I can’t make it out.

  I approach him and stop when I reach his chair. Gently, I place a hand on his shoulder and feel his body tense up.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” I say.

  “Do you need something?” he asks, never looking up.

  I walk around the chair until I’m on his side and look at a messy pile of feathers, some chenille yarn, thread, fishing hooks, and a few other mystery items that are spread across the table.

  “I was looking for some company. If that’s okay with you.”

  “Suit yourself.” He extends his hand, gesturing for me to take a seat.

  I sit down to the left of him. “What are you doing?”

  “Making flies for my store.”

  “Flies?”

  “Fishing flies for anglers.”

  I shake my head. “I know nothing about fishing.”

  “They’re lures. Hooks that are made to look like an insect, like a fly, to attract fish.”

  “And you use all that crap,” I wave my hand at the collection of threads, yarns, and feathers on the table, “to make them?”

  “Yes,” he says, amused. “I use all that crap.”

  “And the fish fall for it?”

  He twirls a thread around a hook locked in some sort of vice mounted on a wooden base holding it in place. “They do.”

  “Suckers,” I joke. “Can I try?”

  “You’re that bored, huh?”

  “There’s only so much watching the snow fall to the ground this girl can take. Anyway, I’m sure listing fly making as a skill set will boost my resume.”

  Picking up a small scissor from the table, he snips the thread then loosens the vice, releasing the hook. “Here.” He slides the vice in front of me. “Grab a hook. You do know what a hook is, right?”

  “Keep talking to me like I’m an idiot, and you just might meet my left hook.” I raise my left fist in jest and scowl. Carefully, I pick a hook up off the table.

  He laughs. “I’m just kidding. Secure it in the clamp, you’re going to thread the hook’s shaft.”

  Shaft? Not touching that with a ten-foot pole.

  “What color thread should I use?” I ask.

  “Whatever you want.” He hands over some metal tool that looks like something my gynecologist might use.

  “What’s this?”

  “Bobbin threader. It’ll make threading the hook a little easier. “

  I study the bobbin and frown. “Where do you buy one of these?”

  “A bait and tackle shop,” he answers dryly. “I can recommend a good one if you’re interested.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say sarcastically, reaching for a spool of black thread. “So, I pull the thread through this tube?”

  He nods. “The spool clips on the end and the thread feeds up the tube.”

  “How am I supposed to get a piece of thread up that long cylinder?”

  “Suck it up.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Put your mouth on the end… and suck.”

  “There’s so much I could say, right now.” Shaking my head, I smirk.

  He raises a brow. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  I laugh. “Nope.”

  Squinting one eye, I poke the end of the thread into the tiny cylinder opening and suck the opposite end up like a straw until the thread is pulled through.

  “First try, sucker,” I gloat, holding the piece of thread.

  “I precut some copper wire to fit the hook. Grab one wire and a few pheasant tail fibers and lay them against the hook’s shaft,” he says.

  “Do you have to keep using that term?”

  “Hook?”

  “No, the other one.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,
” he lies.

  “Yes, you do. You just want me to say it.”

  “Say what?” he asks, feigning innocence.

  “Shaft.”

  “Do you have a problem grabbing the shaft?” he asks slyly.

  “Not at all. In my experience, shafts have been extremely receptive to my hands grabbing them.”

  “I bet.”

  “That’s a pretty long shaft—for a hook,” I tell him.

  “Depending on what you’re working with, sometimes it’s not the size of the hook, but the thickness that matters.”

  Did the season just change? Because it’s getting mighty warm in here.

  “I’d say that theory fits a few scenarios.”

  “Care to elaborate?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Not a chance, Snowman. What’s next?”

  “Wrap the thread around the wire and feathers a few times until they’re held tightly in place.”

  “Okay.” I close an eye and circle the thread around the hook. “Dammit.” The wire and feathers slip.

  “It’s okay, just reset them,” he coaxes.

  I straighten them against the steel and try again, winding the thread around four times before they slip again. I blow my hair off my face in frustration and try again.

  “Ugh. This is impossible,” I whine.

  “Here, let me help you.” He stands from his chair and walks behind me. Bending over, he wraps his arms around my back, down my arms until his hands are resting on mine. Goosebumps prickle up my skin at his touch. “Do this with me,” he says.

  He takes my hand in his and guides the bobbin around the feather and wire, winding the thread around and around. The feather and wire are now securely in place. His cheek lightly brushes against mine, his stubbly beard awakening the longing I’ve managed to keep under control.

  “Okay, now we need to add something to attract the fish,” he says.

  “Like what?”

  “Peacock feathers or marabou hair. Whatever you want. This is your creation.”

  “I like the peacock feathers,” I tell him.

  “To the side of you are peacock herls.”

  “Herls?”

  “The barbs of a feather. Grab a few, and we’ll tie them on.”

  I reach across the table, grabbing a few feather strands. “Do I tie this on top of what we already did?”

  “Yes, but you want the feathers to sort of spike out, so the fish are tricked into thinking it’s an insect.”

  “Ah. Got it.” I place the feather strands on top of my creation.

  Nick is still behind me, leaning into me. He wraps his arms around me again and guides my hands as we wrap the feathers onto the hook. My heart beats wildly, my pulse leaps with excitement, and the now-familiar naughty tingles reappear. I try my best to ignore them, like I always do, and continue wrapping the feathers around the hook.

  “There you go, you’ve got this.” He grabs the scissors and cuts the thread.

  “Woohoo! It’s a masterpiece. I kicked fly ass!” I flash a wide grin. “It’s not nearly as nice as the flies you made, but it’s mine.”

  He looks down at the hot feather mess in front of us. “It’s something all right.”

  “Thanks for showing me how to do this. I enjoyed it.”

  He pulls out the chair next to me, sits in it, and faces me. I turn my seat toward him, and he cradles my face gently in his hands. He stares at my mouth, then deep into my eyes. My smile fades as the euphoric feeling of accomplishment I had a second ago is replaced by nerves throughout my body. Unspoken words of desire lie between us. The air is intense and thick with yearning. He caresses my cheek with his thumb. My breathing hitches, and I lean into his touch as an ache fills my chest.

  “Summer, I…” He drops his hands back to his side and sighs. “Are you hungry?”

  Yes.

  For you.

  I nod, keeping silent because if I open my mouth, I’m going to say something stupid like “Take me to your bed.”

  “Come with me to the kitchen. I’ll make us something for lunch.” He stands, offering his hand out to me.

  I place my hand in his, and he pulls me out of my chair. We’re inches away from our bodies touching. Dangerously close. I take a small step back, nearly tripping on my chair.

  “Dammit,” I curse, looking down at the chair. “Stupid chair.” I glance back at Nick, who’s failing to conceal his smile. I purse my lips, then smile with him.

  “Come on, Sloane.” He shakes his head. “Before you damage my furniture.”

  And just like that, the spell between us is broken, and things are light again.

  “I hope leftovers are okay,” he calls out from the kitchen.

  “I’ll eat anything,” I tell him as I stare out the floor to ceiling window. “That smells good. What are you making?”

  “Pot roast with potatoes and carrots.”

  “Mmm.” I turn and join him in the kitchen. “That’s one of my favorites. Is this your aunt’s recipe?”

  “Mine.”

  “You cook?”

  “I do.” He grabs a large spoon from a drawer and stirs the concoction in a pot on the stovetop. “I grew up with tons of inspiration.”

  “Not me. I lived on takeout and frozen dinners. My dad wasn’t much of a cook.”

  “And your mother?” he asks.

  “She died when I was nine.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.” I give him a tight smile.

  “Life’s never the same, is it?” he asks. “You know, after losing a parent.”

  “No. It never is.”

  “Are you close with your father?”

  “We spend holidays together. But I guess not as much as we should. When my mother died, he sort of died along with her. He never got over losing her, and he changed. Focused on work. I know he tried the best he was capable to parent me but I reminded him of everything he lost.”

  “The result of a love that’s lost is grief, even when that love is still very much alive here,” he taps his index finger to his temple, “and here,” he pats a hand over his heart. “Pain is a hefty price to pay. But it’s part of the deal.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly it.”

  “Did he remarry?”

  “No. Your heart has to heal before you could love again. And his just didn’t. He was left with an irreparable open wound. Him finding love again…” I blow out a breath. “There’s no romance in grief. And he’s consumed with it.”

  “That must have been hard for you.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. My father loves me, he’s just not great at expressing it. His way of showing love is pushing me to do better. It’s one of the reasons why I’m trying so hard to…”

  “Close this deal,” he finishes my thought. He tilts his head slightly and looks at me sympathetically. “Summer...”

  I hold up a hand. “Why don’t we enjoy our meal. We’ll talk business later.”

  “Okay.”

  Chapter 28

  “Crap, my flight is canceled. What the hell am I supposed to do now?” I grumble to myself as I search for a new flight on my laptop. Locating the customer service number for the airline, I grab my cell phone and call. After getting disconnected two times, I’m forced to endure the torture of smooth jazz music for the past twenty minutes while I sit on hold. Finally, an agent picks up and reassigns me to a flight late tomorrow afternoon.

  “Are you sure this is the earliest flight?” I ask her. I was hoping to meet up with the Jingle Belles for an early breakfast, then immediately hightail it out of this town. “How about a different airline? Or a different airport?”

  “All flights to the New York City area are completely booked, ma’am. Do you want the seat?”

  “I don’t have much choice. Yes. Thank you.”

  After giving her my information, I hang up and stare at my cell phone, irritated and frustrated.

  “There are no flights to anywhere tonight. I’m stuck in Arid Falls until tomorrow,�
� I tell Nick, who’s been watching me growl at my phone for the past half hour. “Do you think my room is still available at the Holly Inn?”

  “You’re not driving in that.” He waves his hand toward the window. “You’ll stay here tonight.”

  “What? No. I can’t stay here.” My eyes widen in panic.

  “Do you have a better option?”

  I glance out the window. It’s a damn blizzard out there. The wind whistles and whips in different directions making the trees sway violently. Visibility is nearly impossible.

  “I’ll… I’ll go to your neighbors. I wanted to talk to them anyway. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if I stayed there.”

  “And risk your life driving there? Are you that afraid to be alone with me?”

  “Of course not.” I’m petrified.

  “Summer, nothing’s going to happen. You made your feelings crystal clear yesterday.”

  Casting my eyes down, guilt overcomes me, and my heart breaks a little. I want to scream that I lied. I want to tell him how desperately I long for his touch. How my heart flutters when I’m in the same room as him.

  I look up and offer an apologetic smile. “Nick, I…”

  “You don’t need to explain anything. Just tell me you’ll stay.”

  “I’ll stay.”

  We’ve spent the remainder of the afternoon avoiding each other in different parts of the house.

  Claiming I have work to catch up on, I’m on the living room couch, scrolling through work emails on my cell phone. I yawn as I read through routine documents, each notification monotonous and so damn dull.

  Nick mumbled something about getting back to his fly making and disappeared again.

  Finding it difficult to concentrate on anything other than the goal I’ve yet to accomplish—and the man who’s keeping his distance from me—I stare at the fire, waiting for the flames to draw out some kind of inspiration. My eyelids are heavy as the past few days catch up to me. I’ll just close my eyes for five minutes and recharge.

  I wake up on the couch in front of the fireplace with a burgundy crocheted blanket spread over me. I know I didn’t have it when I dozed off. My cell phone is placed safely on the coffee table in front of me. I glance out the window to pitch-black darkness.