I nodded toward the window, feigning nonchalance as I poked the needle through another stitch. “Sledding. You know, sit on something questionably safe, hurl yourself down a hill, pray you don’t die. It’s very therapeutic.”
His brows climbed like they were trying to escape his forehead. “You’re not serious.”
“Dead serious.”
He shifted in his seat. “That’s kid shit, Clara.”
“Kids have the right idea,” I said. “They fling themselves at fun with zero dignity. We should all be so brave.”
He stared at me like I’d suggested we go run a marathon barefoot on broken glass. “Absolutely not.”
“No sled?” I asked lightly. “Because I bet there’s one in the garage. If there isn’t, we improvise. Trash can lid, cardboard, plastic storage bin. I am nothing if not versatile.”
“It’s icy.” His voice went flatter, edged with something that wasn’t just annoyance. “I’m not breaking my neck so you can relive your childhood.”
My chest squeezed. There it was, under the gruff—the pulse of fear he would never admit out loud.
“We’ll pick a small hill,” I said, keeping my tone calm, practical. “Nothing wild. You set the pace. We stop when you say stop.”
His jaw flexed. “That’s not the point.”
“Sure it is.” I slid another stitch off the needle, my hands steady even though my heart had kicked up a notch. “You need some fresh air. I need an excuse to justify the number of cinnamon rolls I just ate. It’s a win-win.”
He huffed out a humorless sound. “You say that like it’s already happening.”
I let my gaze flick over him—broad shoulders, strong arms, a body that could absolutely handle a half–baby hill in the backyard no matter what his brain told him—and then met his eyes again.
“I’m simply suggesting it.” I held his gaze and shrugged. “You’re the one deciding whether we chicken out.”
His eyes narrowed, heat and something sharper sparking there. “I’m not afraid of a damn hill.”
Wes had walked right into my challenge and couldn’t back down. “I know. That’s why we should go.”
The quiet around us hummed and Wes considered my offer. Outside, the sunlight caught the slope behind the house and made it glow. Inside, Wes Vaughn glared at me like he wanted to say no on principle ... and some traitorous part of him was already picturing the snow.
We stoodat the top of the little hill behind Wes’s house, breath puffing white, bundled within an inch of our lives. The yard dipped in a slow, steady slope toward the pines, the trees standing in a dark, watchful line. Beyond them, the narrow path cut toward the dunes and the water—a pale suggestion of the lake through the branches, gray blue and endless.
Getting out here had taken longer than I’d expected. Wes moved carefully on the snow, testing each step like the ground might give way. His boot would go down, then there’d be a subtle shift of his weight, his jaw working as he recalibrated. It was cautious, measured. Not timid. Just a man familiar with what happened when your footing betrayed you.
We’d found two sleds hanging in the garage rafters—one red, one blue, both a little scuffed but still solid. The blue one sat on the packed snow now, pointed downhill. Wes stood beside it like it had personally offended him.
“This is stupid,” he muttered.
I flipped my scarf back over my shoulder. “You’ve said that three times.”
“Because it’s stupid three times.”
His shoulders were tight beneath his coat, muscles bunched around his neck like his body was braced for impact before he’d even sat down. His gloved hand flexed on the rope at the front of the sled, testing it, then dropping it, then picking it up again.
“If I eat shit,” he added, “I’m suing you.”
His mouth twitched, like he wanted to be annoyed but the corner of it hadn’t gotten the memo. He swallowed it down, eyes tracking the hill instead. My boots crunched as I stepped around him, checking the way the sled rested on the snow.
Up close, I could see the nerves he thought he was hiding. The way his thigh tightened when he shifted his weight. The faint hitch in his breath when he looked down the slope and then away.
I crouched beside the sled and straightened it out, nudging the runners into a cleaner line. “Sit,” I said.
He shot me a look. “Don’t talk to me like I’m the dog.”