“We watch the game if the teams are good,” his dad agreed. “Sometimes we drive out on the property and pick out the tree. Too early to cut one down yet, but we flag it so we can find it closer to Christmas.”
“That sounds like fun,” Yvette said. She’d joined him at the sink and was drying dishes. “Riley, what are your family traditions?”
She paused, turning the dishcloth in her hands and staring out the back door. “It depended on where we were. When I was little, we’d go to my grandma’s in Bozeman. I’d play in the snow. Once we went to Disneyland. When I was older, it was a formal dinner with one of my dad’s colleagues.”
“Disneyland sounds fun,” Yvette said.
Riley nodded, then rinsed her cloth at the sink. “I’ll just go wipe off the dining table.”
After she left the room, both Yvette and his dad turned to Mark, motioning him to follow Riley.
“I’m going, I’m going,” he growled.
He found Riley wiping the last of the crumbs off the table. He came up behind her, took the cloth out of her hand and set it down, and pulled her toward the door.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re going outside.” He grabbed her coat from the hook, and she slid her arms inside.
“Why?”
He grabbed her hat and scarf and smashed her hat on her head as she pulled her gloves on.
“We,” he said, grabbing his own coat, “are going to play in the snow.”
To his relief, the lost look he’d seen on her face had faded, replaced with a brightening smile. More confident, he found her a pair of Steph’s old snow boots. With his own gloves and boots on, he grabbed her hand and rushed her outside.
“Do you have any sleds?” she asked.
He grinned. “You could say that.”
He led her around the side of the garage, where he grabbed the corner of a tarp and pulled. “Did they have one of these at your grandma’s?”
Her jaw dropped, and she shook her head, staring at the Rivers family snowmobile.
“Riley Madigan, I’d like to introduce you to one of our Thanksgiving traditions.”
Riley whooped in his ear, her hair flying from underneath her helmet. He grinned as they made another pass up one of his favorite slopes on the property, then down, fishtailing across the old cow pasture. The sound of her laughter did good things to his insides.
“Having fun?” he called back to her.
“Yes!”
“Are you cold?”
“Yes!”
“Do you want to head in?”
“No!”
He laughed and accelerated, spraying snow in an arc as they circled around, her arms tightening around his middle. He tried to ignore how much he liked that. “Wanna try a jump?”
“Um . . . maybe?”
“It’s a small jump. Tiny.” That wasn’t entirely true, but it was a lot smaller than the jumps he’d take with the guys over near Snoqualmie Pass. This was just a couple of slowly decomposing hay bales they kept shaped into a ramp. “Hang on.”
He grinned at the sound she made as they approached the white bump along the edge of the pasture. She clasped her own wrists at his stomach and pressed her knees tight against his hips.
Then they hit the jump, and he hollered and she screamed. They were airborne for only a second, and when they hit the ground in a smooth landing, she erupted in laughter.
If she wasn’t careful, he’d ask her to do this every weekend they had snow.
He spun the mobile in a circle and pulled to a stop. “How was that?” he asked, looking behind him.
“So great.” Her eyes gleamed behind the visor.
“You want to go again?”
She nodded enthusiastically. He didn’t need to be asked twice.
“You want pie, now?” he asked after he’d put the snowmobile away. He followed Riley on the shoveled path.
“Yes.”
“My face is frozen. I’m ready to try that apple crisp you brought.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Are you?”
“I meant to say so earlier.”
She had the decency not to mention again how he’d barely said a word to her before and during dinner. He hadn’t meant to. He’d become so used to being close to her, he wasn’t sure how to be distant.
She took a step off the path into the snow. Standing on the gentle slope next to the driveway, she faced him, then fell flat back. She began slowly waving her arms and legs in the snow. “Snow angels.”
She hadn’t put her hat back on after removing her helmet, and her hair was all messy waves, splayed against the snow. With her pink cheeks and open smile, she was killing him.
“Come make one with me,” she said.
“I’d rather watch.”
“Get over here.”
He trudged over to the clean spot next to her. “Aren’t you cold enough?” He fell backward, landing with a whump. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. “I think my angel is a non-flyer.”
She laughed. “Please? I’ll make sure you get extra whipped cream.”
“Well, in that case . . .” He waved his arms and legs a couple of times. “Don’t tell Gus.”
“My lips are sealed. Let’s see what they look like.” She sat up but paused at how to get all the way up without ruining the impression she’d made in the snow.
“Just a sec, I’ll give you a hand.” He pulled himself up and leapt out of his angel, then reached back to take both her outstretched hands. “One, two, three—” He heaved her into the air as she jumped, both of them overestimating the strength needed to get her out of the snow, and she plowed him over. He stumbled, falling backward, and she landed on top.
After a shocked silence, she began to laugh.
“How many of these did you want to make?” he asked, trying to ignore how good she felt in his arms, how good her hair smelled, how the weight of her could have held him there for a good long time.
She pressed her face to his chest, trying to
