Page 35 of Wintering with George

“Brad!” Thomasin yelled at him.

“I…what?”

“Gran also says that Mom doesn’t really like to cook; she just likes to show off.”

“Putting on hairs,” Dennis apprised us.

“Airs, I think,” Toby corrected his brother. “Though I don’t really get that either.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Brad!” Thomasin yelled again.

Apparently Brad’s mother was stirring the pot. “Sounds like you need to have a word with your mother,” I said, grinning at him.

His groan sounded like he was dying.

“I will murder her,” she promised.

“Mom!” Toby sounded shocked.

I went back to eating, and Dennis was content to sit beside me and tell me all about this new game he was playing on his Switch.

After breakfast, Brad went outside to get the snow off the stairs. I had no idea why that was necessary. Thomasin had tried to help me do the dishes, but I explained that people who cooked did not clean up. She had eventually gone to the gym on the opposite end of the cabin to run off her breakfast. The boys were outside with the dogs in the snow, so when Kurt came down with wet hair sticking up, his glasses on instead of his contacts, looking more than a bit bleary from lack of sleep, I was the only one there to greet him.

“Good morning,” I teased him as I loaded the dishwasher.

“What’s happening?” he grumbled, sounding surly. “Why weren’t you in bed, and where is everyone, and where’s the coffee?”

“That’s a lot of questions.”

“Well, start answering.”

“It’s after eleven,” I said. “And I’ve never slept in that late in my life, not even when I had pneumonia.”

He grunted.

“Your sister is running on the treadmill, the boys have your dogs in the snow, and Brad is shoveling the snow from the stairs for reasons I don’t understand.”

“It’s so when it’s time for us to go, we won’t slip and fall.”

“I never slip and fall,” I reminded him.

“Well, not all of us have your balance,” he said irritably. “And the dogs and the kids will want to go up and down the stairs. There’s snow to run around in.”

“I find your argument valid.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Stop being grouchy. I made you a plate, and the coffee is right there,” I said, tipping my head at the carafe. “It’s Christmas Eve. I expect you to be delightful.”

He made a disgruntled noise and walked over to the machine, where I’d put out for him the biggest mug I could find.

“Your plate is in the oven, so why don’t you sit down, and I’ll get it for you.”

More grunting, but he took a seat at the island. He looked so good all rumpled, I couldn’t resist, and walked over, cupped his chin, tilted his head up, and kissed him.

I meant to just give him a quick peck, but he turned on the stool and leaned into me. Arms wrapped around my neck, he mauled my mouth. It was quite a minty-toothpaste kiss from a man who was normally so contained and controlled.