Free A Summer With Snow (Frosted Seasons #1) by Hallie Swanson Page B

moonlit gardens.
    “He’s in Cambridge, has been for the last couple of weeks.”
    “Oh?” The tone of my voice prompts her to continue.
    “It’s not good; the vets are almost sure he has a brain tumour. He’s had every test going, and I should know something definite tomorrow.”
    I don’t hear any emotion in her voice, and lost for words, I make my way towards the window. Standing behind her, I place my hands on the tops of her arms.
    “Darcy…” I whisper into her ear.
    I feel her stiffen and edge away.
    “Snow, don’t.” Her words cut me dead. “If I don’t talk about him, then it’s not real.”
    “Darcy, the money I’ve got can buy him the best treatment out there. Tell me what you want and I’ll write the cheque here and now.”
    Though her body fights against me, I spin her round to face me. Black streams of mascara run down her face, her eyes swimming with tears.
    “Let’s wait and see what the verdict is tomorrow.”
    I decipher her words through the cracks in her voice. My first instinct is to wrap my arms around her so we become one, allowing me to halve her pain. I want to hold her head between my hands, look into the depths of her eyes and assure her everything will be okay. But my thoughts have allowed the moment to pass; I left it just that little too long. She has seated herself on the settee and sips from the fluted glass she holds to her lips. I watch her place it down on the table and take in the pretty pink imprint left by her lips.
    “I think someone could do with cheering up. Why don’t you go and wipe that shit off your face? I’ve booked us a table at a classy Italian restaurant, so let’s say we make a night of it and we’ll deal with tomorrow, tomorrow .”
    “Food and a fancy restaurant just isn’t going to cut it for me. A load of toffs in their cardboard suits sipping champagne? Tonight I want fucking beer out of a bottle.” The raw emotion in her voice is clear.
    Her eyes spell it out as she looks me up and down.
    “Just look at yourself, Snow, look what you’ve become.” I see her eyes dart towards a family portrait. “I hardly recognise you, it’s like you’re someone else. Your designer suit, your perfectly tied tie and your immaculately polished shoes; it’s all bullshit, you’re bullshit. Tonight, Snow, I want real. I’m going to the paint party to get smashed out of my face. Come if you want, I don’t care either way.”
    What she says hits a nerve. I flick open the grey buttons on my jacket, pull it off, fold it carefully and lay it across the back of the settee. Removing my gold cufflinks, I put them in my trouser pocket, undo the small white buttons at my wrist and push my shirt sleeves up so that they rest above my elbows. The cushion dips beneath me as I sit on the settee at Darcy’s side. My eyes move across the row of face paints laid out on the coffee table; I pick a bright yellow and hold it towards her in the palm of my hands.
    “Guess you’re coming then,” she says, passing me a brief smile.
     
     
    T he blaring music is intolerable as I stand propped against the bar. Thursday night is students’ night; it’s advertised on large posters plastered over the walls. I question if they’re actually university students, since they’reacting more like fucking school kids, jumping up and down as jets of cool steam shoot from the ceiling. Staff members stand partially dressed, positioned around the club on podiums pumping bright neon paint into the crowd of dancers.
    I glance down at my pristine shirt and ten-thousand-dollar suit. I dodge every paint-covered clubber as they push forward, calling out to be served. I search for Darcy through the students and see her only feet away from me. I watch the way her body moves. My eyes wander around the immense dance floor, half-blinded by strobes of light, but my attention returns to Darcy. A group of blokes supping from bottles are staring at her ass; like sharks they are moving closer. I weave