The sky blew crystal kisses to the earth, the snow patterning Meadow Larson’s window in white filigree flakes. That would’ve been fine if it weren’t for Niagara Falls pouring down double-paned glass and drenching her in-home catering kitchen.
Worse, on the one day her business partner, Del, called in sick.
The leak around the window intensified, streaming wet rivulets over live outlets and onto the plethora of towels she had already placed on the counter and floor.
Mind awhirl with what to do next, Meadow rushed to shut off breakers, then snatched her phone off one of her only dry counters and dialed her sister Flora while sloshing back toward the awful mess.
“Meadow, you’re panting. What’s wrong?”
“I have four caters over the next week, and my place is flooding under massive snow melt.” Realizing every towel she owned was now soaked, Meadow turned to grab blankets from her hall closet.
She heard an ominous creaking sound behind her. Turning back, she looked up . . . and lost her breath.
As if in slow motion, her ceiling bowed and then crashed to the floor in a thundering pile of icy lumber and tile. Her countertops and best catering supplies disappeared under a destructive mishmash of winter’s white frosting and debris.
Scrambling backward, Meadow dropped the phone. Stared in fascinated horror at the cave-in that covered her kitchen in a heap of unprecedented February snow. Her dream-since-childhood business squashed by a southern Illinois blizzard. A “once-in-a-lifetime event,” this morning’s weatherman had called it, right after he’d informed viewers the groundhog had seen his shadow.
How could her demanding schedule survive six more weeks of winter?
Moreover, how could she fulfill contracts with clients when her workspace and best catering supplies were pulverized?
“What was that racket? Meadow, everything okay?”
Meadow became aware of the voice on the floor. She picked up her phone—the face of which now resembled how she felt inside: cracked in all directions. “No. Could you please come over? My kitchen ceiling collapsed.”
“You kidding me?”
“Wish I were.” Meadow fought tears. She hadn’t cried in ten years and wasn’t about to now. Fearing more collapse, Meadow fled for cover outside. Ironic.
She’d always loved wintertime, with its beautiful diamond glisten and the enchanting allure of hoarfrost.
Not. Today.
Meadow threw on a coat from the front hall closet, and the storm door slammed in her wake as she left to pace the front yard.
Midway between her red Tudor cottage door and the street, she passed a knight-white snowman standing sentry over her sidewalk. She didn’t know who had built him since no children lived near her, but she paused, glared at it, and decided the majestic ice imp was mocking her.
With a less-than-ladylike growl, she hauled her leg back and kicked.
Ploof!
Her entire foot and ankle disappeared into the snowman’s torso. “I hate you, and I hate that stupid groundhog!”
Groundhog? Colin McGrath set his box back on the passenger seat and rounded his truck to get a better look at the animated face issuing the words he’d just heard. He watched the woman across the street with interest. She had evidently just assaulted the snowman in her yard.
Stuck in an awkward stance resembling a frozen flamingo in a badly posed karate move, she whipped her arms around like a hostile windmill. Balance righted, she yanked her leg out of the snowman and raised her foot. Colin grew amused to find it shoeless.
The astonished glare she sent the snowman could’ve gone viral on YouTube. As she sputtered something about it being a wretched, shoe-thieving traitor, Colin burst out laughing.
Until he saw her tears.
The brunette swiped madly at them before dropping to her knees. Concern coursed through him as she started scooping out wads of snow.
Her distress drew him quickly across the street.
Recalling the strength of her kick, he approached cautiously. “Bad day, I take it?”
Frosty’s would-be assassin shrieked, stood, and whirled. Hair swept from widening honey eyes, she looked familiar. But he’d been gone ten years. Colin fought to place her.
“Didn’t mean to startle you”—he eyed her barren ring finger—“miss.”
Her face plumed the color of cranberries on a cold winter day . . . like today. She slid back to the frozen ground and dug, probably for her MIA shoe. To no avail. Colin reached into the eviscerated snowman and yanked the footwear right out.
She stood again and snatched the loafer out of his hands. “May I help you?”
He bit his lip to block a grin. “No, ma’am, but I thought I better offer assistance.”
A scowl furrowed her lovely brow. “I don’t need your help.”