“Among other things.”
The trail we’re following isn’t really a trail—just a path worn by years of kids cutting through the nearby woods. It winds through pine trees heavy with snow, past the old fort Evan and I built when I was ten, toward the creek that’s probably frozen solid by now.
Clare stops suddenly, bending to scoop up a handful of snow. “This is perfect packing snow.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
But she’s already grinning, that mischievous look that’s been driving me crazy all weekend. “Think about what?”
“Clare.”
“Mitchell.”
She’s backing away now, that snowball growing in her hands, and I realize with perfect clarity that I’m about to get pelted by a woman who’s never been in a real snowball fight in her life.
“You know I play hockey, right? My reflexes are—”
Clare’s laugh is pure delight, it sends warmth through me even as cold snow slides down inside my jacket.
“Your reflexes are what now?” she calls, already packing another one.
“You’re in trouble now.”
I scoop up my own ammunition, and what follows is less snowball fight than snowball massacre. Clare’s got decent aim but no sense of strategy. She stands in the open, making herself an easy target, laughing too hard to dodge effectively.
I take mercy on her after the third direct hit, but when I close in to declare victory, she surprises me with a handful of snow shoved down the back of my neck.
“Holy hell, that’s cold!”
“That’s the point!”
I grab for her, and she tries to run, but her boots slip in the snow. I catch her before she goes down, pulling her against my chest, both of us breathing hard and laughing.
Her face is tilted up toward mine, snow caught in her eyelashes, cheeks flushed from chill and exertion. She’s beautiful, and I’m about to tell her so when the first snowball explodes against my shoulder.
“What the—”
“Incoming!” Evan’s voice carries across the clearing, followed immediately by Jake’s war cry.
They’ve flanked us, the bastards. Set up behind a fallen tree with an arsenal that suggests they’ve been planning this ambush for a while.
“Run,” I tell Clare.
“What?”
Another snowball whistles past my ear. “Run!”
But instead of running, she does something that stops my heart. She steps in front of me, scoops up snow with both hands, and launches herself into battle.
The sight of her—fierce, protective, willing to fight for us—does something to my chest that I can’t explain.
The battle is brief but brutal. Evan and Jake have superior positioning and ammunition, but we’ve got mobility and the element of surprise. Clare proves surprisingly ruthless once she gets going, nailing Jake with a perfect shot to the face while he’s reloading.
“Nice arm,” I tell her when we finally declare a ceasefire.
“I played softball in high school.”
“Now you tell me.”