“How about you? Did you sleep well?” She’s peering up at me where I stand beside the swing.
“Like a baby,” I lie.
Jo gives me a small smile.
“You know that saying is all wrong. Most babies don’t sleep well.”
I huff a quiet laugh and lift a shoulder in a shrug. Jo pats the seat beside her and I take it, resting my arm along the back of the swing.
What I don’t expect is for her to scoot, burrowing into my side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I take that as permission to tuck her head under my chin, my face settling in her hair.
Sure, I could tell myself she’s just cold, that she only tucked into my side for warmth. It’d be a hell of a lot safer to think that. But something deeper hums beneath her silence, something I can almost feel in my bones. From our date to that kiss last night, it seems like over these last couple days she’s worked past the doubts and fears she’s carried for far too long, slowly finding her way toward letting me in.
We fall into a comfortable silence, the only sound around us the creak of the swing and the gentle rustle of branches bowing under the weight of fresh snow. Sometime overnight, the ice gave way to snow, and now at least five inches blankets the ground.
“I love the silence of snow,” Jo says, her voice a hushed whisper. “The world feels so much softer like this. All the noise goes silent, and life feels…easy.”
She doesn’t say anything else and after a moment, she starts sketching, the pencil moving across the screen. Meanwhile, I sit quietly beside her, rocking slowly back and forth, content to be here with her.
Jo’s hand stalls, and she whispers, barely audibly, “Merry Christmas, Tyler.”
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” I say into her hair.
“Jay, you need another layer! You’ll freeze in just a T-shirt! Abby, run and try on my rain boots. Those will keep your feet dry.”
Jo’s living room looks like a Christmas shop exploded, wrapping paper and opened gifts spread out on every available surface. She’s checked in on her grandmother and cooked a Christmas breakfast with so much food I’ll have to double my workout routine this week.
Together we FaceTimed my family who all gathered round Penny’s laptop wearing matching smiles at the sight of Jo and me together. Abby and Jay even took their turn on the call, showing everyone their gifts, including the ones from me.
Now, both kids are chomping at the bit to get out in the snow. It might be Christmas morning, but in the south a snow day takes precedence. Sounds of kids yelling and playing outside can be heard the entire time Jo and the kids scrounge up winter gear. A neighbor with a four-wheeler offered to take Abby to Amelia’s house across town, and Jay plans to sled on garbage can lids with a whole crew of kids. Jo darts from room to room, pulling jackets and mismatched gloves from closets, trying to piece together enough warm layers to keep them both from “catching their death by cold.” Her words, not mine.
Not entirely sure how to help, I mosey to the bookcase in her art room, hoping to find something to read. The shelves mostlycontain colorful romance novels, but toward the bottom I spot a worn copy ofThe Count of Monte Cristo.
Settling back in the living room, I flip through the book until my eyes land on a line that grabs my attention. I’ve likely read the line before but never really felt until now:
“She is a woman made not only to be loved, but to give love.”
I glance up as Jo steps into the living room, arms loaded down with gloves and scarves, her cheeks flushed with effort.
I don’t think there are many words truer than those to describe her. Love pours from her in every way possible—toward her kids, her grandmother, her students, her friends. Maybe even one day toward me.
Abby enters the living room next, dressed and ready for the cold, and Jo hands her a pair of gloves and a scarf just as the low rumble of a four-wheeler engine drifts in from outside. The two of them head out and a couple minutes later, the engine fades into the distance. Jo returns to the living room right as Jay comes trudging down the hall, puffed up in so many layers he looks like the kid fromA Christmas Story.The surly look on his face tells me he’s hating every minute of this.
“Mom,” he groans, dragging out the word. “I’m gonna burn up.”
Jo sighs, but helps him peel off his coat. Jay yanks off a sweatshirt beneath it, then shrugs back into the coat with a huff. He’s barely zipped it up before he’s bolting outside to a group of waiting friends. Jo lingers at the window, watching them trek down the snowy driveway, but as soon as they’re out of sight, she closes the door with a soft click, turning the lock and deadbolt. Pivoting to face me, she’s wearing a coy smile on her face, and my cock flexes in my pants.
“The whole time I was bustling around, I was thinking about something,” she says, walking back toward me.
I raise a brow and she goes on.
“We haven’t discussed that comment you made the other night.”
I hum, tilting my head like I’m trying to decide what she’s talking about. “I made a lot of comments the other night. Maybe I need a reminder.”
Jo gives me a flat look, blinking. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you? If my memory serves me, you asked if I taste sweet.”
Well now. It seems we really have turned a corner.
