I push back the comforter and step out of bed, padding naked across the plush carpet. Paul designed every room in this house to showcase natural light and killer views, which means one entire wall of our bedroom is shiny black glass—the glossy blackness another sign we didn’t get much snow. A solid coating on the ground would lighten things up to a foggy gray, even though the sun won’t rise for another half hour.

I press my face to the glass, gazing out on woods that are still dark and raw. A ghostly steam hangs over the water like smoke, creepy and picture-perfect.

But I was right about the snow; we only got a light dusting.

I grab my robe from a hook in the closet, wrap it around me and head downstairs.

Another sign Paul drank too much—the normally pristine kitchen is a disaster. Dirty dishes, crumpled napkins, food wrappers and a forgotten carton of milk on the counter. I pour it down the drain and straighten the mess while I wait for the espresso machine to warm up. It’s Paul’s prize possession, a complicated Italian gadget that cost more than a normal person pays for their whole kitchen. But I’ve got to give it to him—the coffee is divine.

While the machine spits out a foamy dark stream, I lean a hip against the counter and think through my day. Paul should be back soon, and then he’ll need a ride to town to pick up the replacement car, which should be waiting in the office lot. On the way back, I can drop off the drawings for the Curtis Cottage at the client’s current home.

And that’s when it occurs to me. The drawings are still in the boat. Right where I chucked them, along with my cell phone, in the cubby under my seat. In our hurry to get up the hill and into the house so we could start the celebrating in earnest, I left them there.

I look out the window. The sky is brighter now, daylight lighting up tree branches sifted with snow, even though it’s dry for now. But if some of that snow made its way onto those drawings, Gwen is going to have a fit.

I set my coffee cup on the counter and rush to the mudroom—a space I never knew existed before I started dating Paul. And honestly, what’s the point? A whole room specifically for muddy shoes and jackets—is that really necessary? Ours is a rectangular space with a slate floor, a wall of custom cabinets and cubbies, and exactly zero mud. No Keller Architecture house comes without one.

I shove my feet into a pair of snow boots, faux fur–lined and with a steady, deep tread, and pluck my coat from the hook.