The Stroke of Winter(62)

“You’re sleeping over at my house,” he said, his voice soft.

“I know,” she said, turning to him.

“It’s nice to have you here,” he said.

“It’s nice to be here,” she whispered.

He stroked her hair. “I have to tell you, Tess, that from the first moment I saw you . . .” His words drifted off into the air, replaced by a look of love and vulnerability on his face as he gazed down into her eyes.

“I know,” she said. “From the first moment I saw you, too.”

He kissed her, then, and she wrapped her arms around him. She didn’t care about any paintings or mysteries or ghosts in her house, or anything else. She was here, now. And it was the most important thing in the world.



The next morning, Tess awoke to sun streaming in through the blinds on the windows. Wyatt was sound asleep beside her. She snuggled back down and closed her eyes, not wanting to leave their warm bed, but despite trying for a while, sleep would not return.

She looked at Wyatt’s handsome face and noticed his profile. A perfect nose. Strong jaw. He really was quite beautiful, she thought.

Tess slid out of bed, careful not to wake him, and put on her slippers. Storm was nowhere to be found. Downstairs with the girls, she guessed. She brushed her teeth and hair, splashed some water on her face, and with Wyatt still snoring softly, she retrieved her phone from her purse and padded out of the room and down the hall toward the stairs.

On her way past his bedroom, she saw his door was open, so she peeked inside. Another wooden head-and footboard and massive dresser from the same era as the one in “her” room.

The walls were lined with lovely fading, old-fashioned patterned wallpaper in deep reds and creams. The nightstand held a stained-glass lamp and several books. She could make out a couple of thrillers, a popular title about race relations, and a political insider’s tell-all about life in the White House. She smiled at his reading choices.

Wyatt’s clothes from the day before were strewn on the bed, which was not made, and a round Oriental rug sat on the floor between the bed and the fireplace. An afghan, which looked hand crocheted, was slung across an overstuffed armchair in the corner by one of the windows; a book lay open on its ottoman.

Comfortable, Tess thought. Everything about this man felt comfortable to her. She inexplicably felt at home with him, and had since the first day they met. Was this what love was? She mulled it over in her mind as she padded down the stairs and headed for the kitchen.

She eyed her phone—it still had a charge, thank goodness—and dialed her parents. Best to get this conversation over with early, she thought. The phone rang five times.

“You’ve reached us. Sorry we’re not here to take your call. Please leave a message.”

Tess glanced at the clock. They were probably on the golf course by now, she thought. She’d call them a bit later.

The dogs materialized from wherever they had been curled up and headed for the kitchen door. Time to go out, she realized. Wyatt’s backyard was fenced in, so she opened the door and was greeted by a whoosh of chilly air as the three of them scrambled around her. She watched as they romped in the snow, Storm joining in with the girls like they were old friends. We’re all comfortable here, Tess thought.

She looked around for the dogs’ food, filled their bowls, and then set about making breakfast for Wyatt. In the fridge, she found eggs, swiss and goat cheeses, sweet red and yellow peppers, and fresh spinach. She spied tomatoes and a Vidalia onion on the counter. Perfect for an omelet. In the fridge, breakfast sausage. She piled all of it onto the counter and hunted around for coffee. Before she set about slicing and dicing and whisking, she let the dogs in. They headed for their dishes, and she got to work.

First, she put the breakfast sausage into a small frying pan with a little water, covered it, and turned on the burner so the sausage would start steaming. Then, she sliced the peppers and onions very thin. While they were sautéing in another bigger pan, she sliced the tomatoes and whisked six eggs, beating them for at least two minutes. That was the trick to fluffy, silky eggs she had learned from her favorite Julia Child cookbook. With the peppers and onions softening, she added the tomatoes and spinach, sautéed for a minute or two, and then added the eggs.

At the very end, she folded the mixture over the goat and swiss cheeses to create the perfect cheesy omelet and sprinkled some of the cheese on top, just in time for Wyatt to walk into the room.

“What’s all this?” he said, a huge grin on his face.

She poured a cup of coffee and handed it to him. “Breakfast,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. He set the mug down on the table and drew her to him. She draped her arms around his shoulders and kissed his lips, loving the feeling of being held by this strong man.

“I could get used to this,” he said. “I can’t tell you the last time someone made breakfast for me. I really can’t remember.”

Tess smiled at him and turned back to the stove. “I love doing it,” she said.

He came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and rested his head on her shoulder. “So, what have we got here?”

Tess lifted the lid off the sauté pan, and steam arose, along with a savory aroma. “Omelet with sweet peppers, onions, goat and swiss cheeses, spinach, and tomato,” she said.

“It looks great,” Wyatt said. “Where’s yours?”