19. CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ivy

DAY OF THE RED CARPET EVENT

Being snowed in isn't that bad. Breakfast, late morning mimosa bar, drunk puzzling, kitchen counter sex, and a nap? I mean, I can't complain. Or, that's what I tell myself when I think about how disappointed I am about not getting back to New York.

Even though I'm disappointed, I'm trying to separate the feelings of gratitude. Holland has gone out of his way to try and keep me busy, whether it's with an orgasm or an indoor activity, and I'll never forget that.

Plus, he's basically cooked the entire time we've been stuck inside. Last night, he made one of my favorite recipes of his: homemade macaroni and cheer with toasted breadcrumbs. I love the way he looks when I compliment him on his cooking; I know he loves hearing it.

I open the door out to the patio, careful not to have a bunch of snow fall in. Earlier this morning, Holland shoveled and cleaned up the snow so we could sit out and have our coffee. We had to wear hats, scarves, mittens—the whole getup—but it was stunning. I'm still not a big outdoors girl, but seeing the snow like this, it's something the city doesn't have to offer .

The snow has stopped for now and the road crews are starting to plow and get the roads drivable. Holland was able to help out, with paths around the lodge, with his four-wheeler—a man of many talents.

I got an email from the airline saying flights are expected to resume tomorrow. I'll book a flight after chatting with Holland, but he's been so busy, running around all morning.

Slate comes up to where the snowy patio starts and smells around. He's still not sure what to do with all the snow. He keeps testing it with a single paw, but then holds it up like something gross is on it.

Holland opens the door, shaking to get the extra snow of his winter jacket, before hanging it up. Slate runs to him as I close the door to the patio.

"I have an idea," Holland says, while taking off his gloves. "How about dinner at the lodge tonight? The power is back and things are about back to normal over there." His cheeks and nose are red from the cold.

"Sure, that sounds fun."

"We could even get dressed up, if you want?" he asks while taking off his winter boots.

"You want to randomly get dressed up? I mean, you know I'm in but, are you feeling okay?" Holland would prefer to live in jeans and a flannel button up.

"I'm feeling fine. I just know you're missing out tonight and the least I can do is put on a nice shirt and go to dinner."

"Oh! Can we bring Slate? Remember, he has that sweater!" I clap and ask way too loud. Last year, a guest left the gift for us, or for Slate, and we've not had a chance to have him wear it anywhere yet.

"Bea will love it. Yes, we can take Slate," Holland replies before opening the door, hitting his boots together to get the excess snow off before putting them back in the closet. He agreed much faster than I expected, but even Slate has mostly been stuck inside. We're all ready for an adventure.

I run up and kiss Holland on the cheek, his skin cold against my warm lips. He wraps his arms around me, resting on my lower back, before reaching down and putting his chilled lips on mine. I try to move back, surprised by how cold they are, but he pulls me closer to him. I laugh into his icy kiss.

When he lets me go, I head upstairs to decide on what I'll wear. I'm sure Holland was doing anything he could to offer up a distraction, and I love him for it. Knowing he'll get dressed up, when we're just going to the lodge, shows how he cares about me. I'm grateful for this kind of love, all the days, but this time is a little extra special.

Even if today isn't what I expected, or planned for, I'm still feeling grateful for what it does look like.

We're in the truck, riding to the lodge. I keep looking at Slate in the backseat, because I honestly can't get enough of him. From here, it seems like he doesn't mind the sweater. I've already taken approximately one hundred photos–my camera roll is just rows and rows of Slate.

I smooth out my dress—a black Stella McCartney—the satin soft under my fingers. This is one of my go to little black dresses; it's mid length—hitting just below the knee—and has this wrapped top with blousy sleeves.

To complete a full-circle moment, I'm wearing the Manolo Blahnik heels I wore the first time I stepped foot into the lodge. I'll never forget making the walk from the car drop off to the lobby. Bea and I were fast friends, even though she kept calling me the click-clack-queen.

The snow has started to fall again, slow and almost sparkling, as it hits the road. I don't understand how someone could see something like this and still hate the snow. Granted, I'm not driving in it and I'll spend most of my night inside, but it's beautiful.

"What are your plans for the next few days? I need to figure out when I'm going back to New York to debrief on the event, and grab my stuff from my apartment." I look over at Holland, who looks good enough to eat.

Tonight, he's wearing this dark green Burberry dress shirt, with black dress pants. I bought the shirt, on a whim, when I was back in New York before moving out west. I was missing him so bad, doing some retail therapy, and when I saw it, I knew I needed him to have it. It reminded me of the trees and greenery surrounding the lodge.

He looks real good.

"Isn't New York getting the storm we just got?" he asks, but in a way that sounds like he already knows the answer.

"I think heavy snow is coming tomorrow but I'm not sure," I reply, looking over at him. His dark hair falls onto his forehead.

"There's time to figure it out. When the snow settles." He grabs my hand with the one not on the steering wheel and pulls it to his mouth for a kiss.

I could melt in this front seat.

Stella is texting me when Holland parks the truck. As I'm responding, he keeps looking at his watch, like he has somewhere to be.

"We're going to be late," he says, opening his door, one foot out before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt .

When Holland opens the back door, putting Slate's leash on and helping him down, I ask, "Late for what? Our casual dinner?" I scoff at him.

"You'll be late for the surprise," He replies, his eyebrows raised, and his mouth pulled into a mischievous grin.

What surprise?

What is going on?