Vacant Heart

Chapter Seven

Slipping into the slippers, I leave my things behind and head for the door, praying Hughes has something stronger than tea: coffee. I drag myself down the steps, blinking in shock at the sight of the window, which is frosty enough to make it difficult to see outside. The surroundings of the manor I can see are completely snow-covered, the trees, the cars, the gardens have disappeared under the thick coverings.

We are officially snowed in.

The skirt of the dress sways against my leg as I walk the halls in search of the parlor, which is one of the many places he could be. But when I stop at the threshold and find only the fire going, I head in search for the kitchen.

The walls groan louder with each turn, each corner. But the sight of an open door is my salvation. And when I find Aidan inside at a desk, a large machine atop that is reading out weather forecasts, I'm oddly pleased to see him.

He's wearing a cream knitted sweater with black jeans. His shoes are slim boots that lace up in the front. His hair is still wet like mine, which is a relief. Maybe he's a late sleeper and didn't notice how long I'd been out.

He turns down the monotone drone of the man coming from the machine, and looks at me with a sigh. I grimace, expecting bad news.

"How bad is it?"

"Power is out almost everywhere. We're running on the generator now, but there won't be let up for a few days. They said the snow will continue to come."

"And it'll take more days to get us out of here, right?"

"At least a few days. The last storm we were snowed-in for a week before they could plow the mountain roads. It's never happened for Christmas though. This will damper the town's festivities considerably."

I tilt my head at him, smirking. "Not like you would participate anyway, correct?"

He chuckles, rubbing his neck. "Exactly...well, we have enough food and logs to get us through the storm. Our minds may not make it though."

"Mines already gone, as you could probably tell from my actions last night," I confess, my face warming. "I...um, I'm sorry for that. I hope I wasn't too embarrassing."

"You were the perfect drunk."

I gape. "I wasn't drunk."

"Whatever you say," he says, standing from the desk. He points at my head as he passes through the door. "You'll probably want something strong for that hang-over, huh?"

I glare at him, with no choice but to follow, my need for caffeine more important than my pride. Despite my offer, he insists on making the coffee, encouraging me to sit. Instead, I tell him I'll whip us up breakfast before I allow him to show me his work.

That comment earns me a side-ways glance, but he remains silent, letting me dominate the kitchen around him. Eventually, I'm standing and he's sitting, waiting on me. We seem to thrive on silence, which is odd for me, because the absence of speech leaves plenty of room for emotions to squirm their way into the atmosphere.

Because it's fastest, I whip up an omelet, in no need of impressing him. And yet, when I deposit the plate in front of him, he's abashedly shy. He even says thank you to the plate.

"What is it?" I ask, carefully lowering three seats away from him. His eyes flicker to me while he grabs his silver wear, and he shakes his head.

"Nothing."

He says nothing, but my gift for observance proves his lie when his gaze lingers on the dress before focusing on the plate I've made. I realize the dress has startled him, and instantly I'm wary, unsure of how to approach him.