Page 115 of The Finish Line
“You are going to pay for that, dearly,” I say, unable to help my smile as I gaze down at her.
“I let you sleep in long enough.”
“You aren’t going to work?”
“You should know, as a southern raised man yourself, that a quarter-inch of that white stuff,” she says, nodding toward the window, “gives southern cities the chance to play ignorant to what it’s made of and shut down.”
“That so?”
“It’s so,” she nods, her porcelain skin flushed pink from the cold. Her beauty robs me momentarily as I press myself against her, and she paws me with freezing mittens. When I jerk against the discomfort, she giggles.
“We’re going to have a proper snow day, Frenchman. There’s enough for a good fight, a decent-sized snowman, and if you’re a really good boy, I’ll make you a snow cream.”
I wrinkle my nose. “What is a snow cream?”
“It’s a treat for good boys, you’ll see.”
“What does being a good boy entail?” I dip and press my lips to what skin I can reach beneath the layers she has on. “Will you settle for a skilled tongue? You know that’s a lot to ask of me.”
“Just going to have to give it your all, Frenchman.”
“My all is ready,” I murmur into her neck, grinding as much as I can into the quilt-thick clothes she has buttoned around her.
“Cool off, cowboy,” she says, gliding her snow-crusted mittens down my sides, making me flinch.
“You want to battle me? You should know better.”
Her eyes narrow at my challenge. “I can take you,” she taunts.
“Think so?”
“Know so.”
Abandoning the search for more skin, I pull myself away from her and the couch and lift my chin in acceptance of her battle. “Five minutes, Trésor. And you better hide well.”
My four-legged henchman sniffs her out in the garden within the first minute, and she screams like a banshee, tossing an arsenal of poorly made snowballs at me before darting around the house to the front yard. Gaining on her, she makes it all of two steps into the foot-deep blanket in her front yard before she loses her footing and faceplants.
I can’t help my laugh as she lays there, her body shaking with laughter and defeat when I reach her and roll her over to see every inch of her outlined in snow. “The shortest war in US history lasted thirty-eight minutes, Trésor. I’m so disappointed in you.”
I dust her off as she giggles beneath me. “Oh yeah, which war was that?”
“Anglo-Zanzibar, 1896.”
“You’re such a nerd, King,” she coos beneath me. “I thought you’d be happy the war is over.”
“If you’re referring to our war, I’m more than happy. In fact, I’m willing to accommodate all demands for your surrender. But we’re going to have to work on your tactics. You couldn’t even evade my henchman.” I nod over to where Beau lifts his leg, dotting the white powder with a line of bright yellow.
“Beau,” she scolds as he looks over at the two of us as if to say, “what?” She shakes her head, looking back over to me. “I don’t think he likes it.”
“No man likes being balls deep in ice. But those balls, we need to clip, and soon,” I say, pulling her from the ground. “He’s getting way too comfortable with my calf.”
“Shhhh, he’ll hear you,” I swear Beau whines in agreement before trotting away from us, his curiosity getting the best of him. Cecelia pivots when she stands and tangles her leg with mine in an attempt to take me down. I balk at her shitty effort to get me on my back before I give in and take her intended fall.
“You let me win,” she pouts, landing on top of me, knocking some of the air from me as she folds her mitted hands over my chest, her smile beaming. I pluck some of her newly wet and matted hair from around her neck and toss it over her shoulder.
“I find it’s best to let you win at times. Makes life a lot easier for me. And you need a lesson in self-defense,” I add.
She raises a brow before making a show of pulling a mitten off. “Do I?”