“Yay,” I cheered softly, coming to stand next to him.

He looked down at me. “Wait a minute. You can’t go out without a coat.”

“Cole, really, it’s such a short walk. I’ll be fine. You need to go say goodnight to Mariah.”

But he’d already disappeared into the front hall, and a moment later he was back with a dark gray Carhartt I recognized as his. Secretly pleased he was offering his own jacket, I slipped my arms into it.

“Thanks,” I said, freeing my hair from the collar. “I’ll make sure to get it back to you tomorrow.”

“No rush.”

I faced him again, wishing I didn’t have to go home at all, but instead could stay here and curl up under a blanket with him, watch some television, or even go to bed early. My eyes traveled over his shoulders and chest, imagining what it would be like to rest my head on them, bury my face in his neck, snuggle up beneath the covers on a cold night like tonight, instead of falling asleep alone. Then I remembered what he’d said earlier—your body is fucking perfect, Cheyenne—and I couldn’t help but smile as I met his deep blue eyes. “See you Thursday.”

“See you Thursday.” He pulled the back door open once more. “Hey, shoot me a quick text when you get into your house, okay?”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re such a dad.”

He gave me his crooked grin. “Can’t help it.”

Glad my mother was already up in bed when I got home, I dropped my school bag by the front door and dashed up the stairs and into my bedroom. Shutting the door silently behind me, I flopped across my bed on my back and hugged the jacket close, bringing it over my face and inhaling deeply.

It smelled like soap and shaving cream and maybe a little like the pub, but it was a hundred percent him. I couldn’t get enough. Would it be creepy to sleep in it?

I sat up again and grabbed my phone off the charger on my nightstand.

Me: Made it home in the blizzard. Thanks for the coat.

There was no immediate reply, and I figured he was still in Mariah’s room.

I waited for a minute or two and then gave up on a reply. Reluctantly removing the coat and tossing it on the bed, I took off my work clothes, put on my pajamas, and chose an outfit for school tomorrow. After checking my phone one more time—still nothing—I went across the hall to the bathroom, washed my face, took my pill, brushed my teeth, and rubbed moisturizer into my skin.

Back in my room, I switched off the light and slipped between the sheets, reaching for my phone again.

He’d written me back!

Cole: Thanks for letting me know. You’re welcome for the coat. It looks good on you.

Another compliment!

My entire body hummed with pleasure and I wiggled from side to side. You’d look good on me, I typed, wishing I had the guts to send it. I laughed silently as I deleted the words and sent a real reply—flirty, but not dirty.

Me: It kept me nice and warm all the way home. I might never give it back.

Cole: Ha.

Me: Would you arrest me for theft?

Cole: Definitely. You’ve always been a menace to society.

I grinned and typed another message I’d never send.

Would you cuff me? Throw me in the back of your car? Get rough with me?

It felt good just pretending I was the kind of girl who’d actually text him that. But since I wasn’t that brave, I deleted the words and typed something else.

Me: Mariah okay?

Cole: Sound asleep. I should get to bed too.

Me: Same here. Goodnight.

Cole: Night.

With a smile lingering on my face, I set my alarm, replaced my phone on the charger, and snuggled beneath the covers. I imagined him doing the same thing, and I liked that I was the last person he’d spoken to—even if it was only via text message—before falling asleep.

Was it as good as being next to him? Hell no. But I was thinking about him, and maybe he was thinking about me, and tonight, there had been something different about the way he’d looked at me.

It was enough for now.

Also . . . Yes. I slept with his coat.

Don’t judge.

The following day was a half-day at school, and I spent the rest of the afternoon making pie crust dough and helping my mom prepare for Thanksgiving. We dusted the furniture, put the leaf in the dining table, and dragged the Christmas tree from the attic along with boxes of lights and decorations. While my mother strung the lights, I hung the ornaments, laughing at the ones Griffin and I had made by hand during grade school.

We sliced Brussels sprouts, prepared the mashed potatoes, and made cranberry sauce. Since my mother’s house only had one oven, tomorrow I’d get up early and bake two pies—one pumpkin, one lemon meringue—before we had to put the turkey in. The mashed potatoes could be done on the stove, Mrs. Mitchell had offered her oven for the casserole and was also bringing hot appetizers, and Blair was bringing dinner rolls, a cheese plate, and her famous apple pie.

Finally, we set the table for seven with my parents’ wedding china and late grandmother’s silver, which only made appearances at Christmas and Thanksgiving. We decided to set a place at each end of the table, then have three people on one side, and two on the other.

“Well, I guess that’s everything for today,” my mother said, hands on her hips as she surveyed the table with a critical eye. “Unless you think we should swap out the ivory tablecloth for the burgundy.”

“No, I like the ivory.” I smoothed a ripple in the pristine damask as someone knocked loudly on the front door.

My mother and I exchanged quizzical glances. “Are you expecting someone?” she asked as she went to answer it.

“No,” I said, wondering if it was Cole coming to ask for his coat back. I’d been planning to return it this evening, but I wanted to change my clothes and clean up a little first. I’d put on sweats after work, and I was covered in dust and silver polish.

“Well, hi there!” I heard my mother exclaim. “Come on in, Mariah. What do you think of all this snow?”

Breathing a sigh of relief, I went to say hello.

“I like it,” Mariah said, stomping her boots before stepping into the front hall.

“Hey, Mariah,” I called.

“Hi, Miss Cheyenne.” She beamed at me and held up a brown paper bag. “I made place cards for tomorrow. Want to see them?”

“Of course I do! Take your boots off and come put them on the table.”

“How thoughtful of you,” my mother said, shutting the door behind Mariah as the girl tugged off her boots. “Can I take your coat?”

“Yes, thanks.” Mariah unzipped her jacket and handed it to my mother, then scooped up the paper bag again.

“The kids loved your turkey,” I told her, leading the way into the dining room. “Thanks again for making it.”

“You’re welcome. I used the idea to make these.” She stuck her hand in the bag and pulled out seven miniature versions of the turkeys we’d made last night, each of them with three colorful feathers and labeled with a name.

“Oh, they’re so cute!” I exclaimed, picking up the one that said Miss Cheyenne in a fourth grader’s round, swirly cursive. “I love them! Mom, look what Mariah made.”