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“She remembered Cosette mentioning that the generator needed servicing,” he added, shifting on the porch. “With the power out, she was afraid you might be, uh . . . cold.”

Cold?

I was standing there barefoot in pajama pants and a T-shirt with half the storm blowing into the entryway staring at the large snowdrifts that filled the landscape.

“Good guess,” I said, more than a little put out that he’d interrupted my moment with Rory.

Not that I didn’t appreciate my mom worrying about me.

He scrubbed a hand over his unshaven face. “What I meant to say was, I can take a look at the generator with you. Or you’re welcome to come home.”

Come home? Huh.

And here I’d thought getting semi-engaged to Rory was going to be the biggest surprise of the day.

Was I ever wrong.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Tate

“Oh my gosh, it’s so cold,” Rory exclaimed, clinging to my side.

The snow whipped around us, sharp and sideways, needling my face and catching in Rory’s hair as we fought our way across the yard with George and my dad.

Next door.

We were going next door.

Yet somehow it felt like we were trekking across the prairie in a blizzard, searching for shelter before we all froze solid and George became the only survivor—thanks to his excessive fur and the fact that he’d leave us for the first person who offered him a dog treat.

My dad walked a few steps ahead of us, one arm lifted to shield his face. Through the blur of white, my parents’ house glowed warm and golden, every window bright like it was trying to prove to me that it had potential. That my family had potential.

It was almost as if it were beckoning me to come back.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

But the weather was too brutal to even attempt to figure out what had gone wrong with the generator, so it had been decided that heading for warmth was in everyone’s best interest.

Though, for the record, I had no doubt in my ability to keep Rory plenty warm during a storm and power outage.

But apparently she liked hot water.

And not seeing her breath indoors.

Women. So particular.

By the time we made it into the entryway of my childhood home, we looked like iced gingerbread people and George like a baby polar bear.

Rory let out a sigh of relief and dropped her bag. We were all breathing as if we’d run a marathon instead of walked several yards between neighboring houses.

Mom came rushing out to greet us, her smile brighter than it had been in weeks. I wondered if she and Dad were on the mend. She had obviously convinced him to walk over and offer to help.

“Oh my goodness, look at you all.” Her gaze dropped to George. “And you too, George,” she added, straining for cheer.

Pets weren’t Mom’s thing. Too much hair and mess.

George took that as his cue to shake every ounce of snow off his body.