While I shoveled the front walk and driveway, Sylvia made coffee, scrambled some eggs, and sliced some fruit for us. Since she’d arrived wearing only that red dress and high heels, I’d loaned her a T-shirt. It was huge on her, hanging nearly to her knees, but she looked adorable in it, moving around in my kitchen in her bare feet, hair in a messy pile on top of her head.

I could get used to that so easily, I thought when I came in from the cold and saw her look up at me and smile. It was enough to keep me from going to her and tearing the shirt right off. Sylvia in my kitchen on a Sunday morning was not something I should get used to. In fact, it would probably be a really long time before it happened again—if it ever did.

After breakfast, she put the red dress and heels back on, buttoning her coat all the way up to the top. “I should have brought a change of clothes—and some boots,” she said at the door, shaking her head as she looked out the front window. “What was I thinking?”

“You were thinking about fucking me,” I reminded her, helping her with the top button.

“True story.” She sighed. “Oh well. I’ll live.”

“I could carry you to your car,” I offered, only half-joking.

That made her smile. “No, that’s okay. The walkway is shoveled, and I can pull right into the attached garage at Cloverleigh. Hopefully no one is in the kitchen and I can sneak up to my room.”

“Okay. Hey, I was thinking about something you said last night while I was outside—about your kids being disappointed about not skiing. What about taking them skiing here? It’s not Aspen or anything, but the drive to Crystal Mountain or Boyne isn’t bad.”

Her face brightened. “You’re right. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.”

“You were thinking about fucking me, remember?”

She blushed and swatted my chest with her gloves. “You’re making me sound like a fiend. But that’s a great idea. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I planted one last kiss on her lips, resisting the urge to ask when I might next see her. “Drive carefully, okay? The roads are probably still a mess. Hey, will you let me know when you get home so I’m not worried?”

“Sure. But you’re going to have to give me your number for that.” She pulled her phone from her purse, opened up her contacts, and handed it to me.

I put my information in and gave it back to her. She glanced at what I’d entered and looked up with a smirk. “You really want to be in here as Big Dick DeSantis?”

“A hundred percent yes,” I told her.

She was still laughing when she went out the door.