Free Frosted by Katy Regnery Page A

Aw, Grace, I don’t know where the heck this can go, but I’m not ready for it to end yet.”
    “Me neither,” she whispered.
    He turned to look at her, his face a mixture of longing and regret, hope and despair. Futility. Surrender. “Will you call him and cancel?”
    “Yes.” She nodded and his shoulders relaxed as he turned back around.
    Reaching for the half-empty root beer, she tore open the Advil and washed them down. Her stomach growled fiercely with the tease of nourishment and she realized that she hadn’t eaten since her pastry this morning.
    “You hungry?” he asked, then grinned. “Silly question…I’m fairly sure your stomach just woke a few bears from hibernation.”
    “If I say yes will you show off by heading out into the storm to forage for us?”
    He pivoted to look at her, his eyes relaxed now, twinkling with amusement. “Forage? Why, up here in the mountains, ma’am, I prefer to wrestle for my venison.”
    He laughed, shaking his head at her.
    She chuckled right along with him. “You’re welcome to a sip of my root beer, but other than that…What do you suggest?”
    “Housekeeping cleaned out the kitchen to discourage varmint, but I found some s’mores fixings in the office. When was the last time you had a s’more, Miz Grace?”
    “Not since I was a girl.”
    “Then it’s time,” said Tray, winking at her. “It’s long past time to have one again.”
    ***
    As Tray stoked the fire in preparation for s’mores, Grace picked up his phone to call Stewart.
    “You’ve reached The White Deer Inn. This is reservations. How can I help you?”
    “Stewart Whitman’s room, please,” she said.
    “My pleasure, ma’am.”
    And then a moment later, Stewart’s voice. “Hello?”
    “Stew, it’s Grace.”
    “Grace! How good to hear your voice! I was just about to go downstairs to meet you. Shall I come by your room instead?”
    She grimaced at his eager tone. “No. No, Stew, I’m so sorry. I won’t be able to have dinner tonight.”
    “Why not?”
    “I had an accident, I’m afraid. The stupidest thing. A skiing mishap—”
    “We’ll order room service. I’ll come to you. Take care of the little patient.” He paused. “I have something important that I want to ask you.”
    Grace looked up to see Tray standing against the flagstones beside the fire, arms folded over his chest, staring at her intently.
    “No, Stew, I’m afraid…”
    Though he didn’t move a muscle, Tray’s eyes held hers with a searing intensity.
    “Yes, Grace?”
    “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
    She realized then that Tray had been holding his breath, because she heard the short exhalation and watched his chest fill again.
    “Not possible? Dinner?”
    “Dinner. Your important question. None of it’s possible. You’re a good man, Stew. But I have thirty or forty years left,” she said, holding Tray’s eyes as he uncrossed his arms, as his chest filled and emptied again, his skin a godlike golden in the firelight. “And I want to spend them with someone who…”
    “Who what, Grace?”
    Tray’s eyes searched hers in the dim light, and he took a step toward her. Then another, and another.
    “Who makes me feel ,” she continued in a breathless whisper.
    “For heaven’s sake! Feel what?” asked Stewart.
    “Everything,” she gasped, as Tray dropped to his knees beside her, reaching up to cup her face with his rough, warm hands.
    “Well, Grace, I just don’t know what to—”
    “Good-bye, Stew,” she murmured, pressing “End” and letting the phone drop to the couch beside her as Tray’s lips slammed into hers.

Chapter 8
     
    Morning light streamed into the room through the bank of windows to the left of the couch, made all the brighter from the snow and ice off which it bounced and sparkled. As Grace’s eyes fluttered open, she remembered where she was, and sighed in contentment. Snuggled up against Tray, her back to his front, his arm held her securely against his body