Page 48 of The Spinster & the Sock

Blaze is already standing, shoving his feet into boots as he hands me my heavy cloak. “Night walks are almost as fun as plowing crop circles into cornfields and sending the community into a panic. Let’s go.”

Hesitantly, I throw on layers and pull a heavy bonnet over my hair. “Circles in cornfields, Blaze, why on earth would that be fun?”

We trot down the stairs as Blaze rambles on. “Full circle, babe—aliens. They leave circles in the crop when they land their spaceships to abduct and probe innocent humans. There was this one movie about it that came out when I was ten. Mom let me go with her to see it on the big screen, and I swear neither of us slept for months. Anyway, when my cousin and I made fake signs in my pop’s cornfield, Mom cleansed the house with sage and reorganized her go-bag for days. It was the funniest thing I had ever seen right up until the point she came home from Costco with a year’s worth of canned goods and I had to fess up. Pops made me drive it all back and get a refund and donate that to a mental health charity of Mom’s choosing.”

“Blaze,” I let out a slow puff. “You are a menace.”

My husband grins and nods towards the fluffy snow. “Shall we?”

I take his hand as he jumps off the steps of the modiste into the untouched winter wonderland with a childlike whoop. As we land, sinking shin-deep into the cold, a carefree smile steals over my face. “I can safely say I have never played in the snow before bedtime.”

“You’re getting all sorts of firsts with me,” Blaze answers coyly, forming a snowball and launching it at me. I shriek and leap out of the way, barely dodging it before I crouch to gather my own fistful of snow.

“Don’t strain yourself, wife, the art of a good pitch is hard to—”

I hurdle the ball of ice towards him.

“Shit!” Blaze chokes on a mouthful of snow as it smacks him in the face. He blinks once, then erupts into laughter, recovering from his stupor to chase after me.

“Payback is a bitch, Jo!” He chuckles as he literally prances through the snow like a predator towards me. I let out a giggle and turn to run, tripping as his hands grab hold of my hips, and together, we land with a soft thump on the frozen ground. “Roll over and take it, wife,” he taunts against my neck as I struggle to breathe through my laughter, attempting to wiggle free of him as his fingers dig into my belly.

“Haven’t you learned?” I retort, flinging an array of snow sporadically over my shoulder, hoping some of it lands on him. “I won’t surrender!”

Boobies

Blaze

My darling, demure wife is shoveling as much snow as she can behind her in a desperate attempt to get me to release her, but the cute little snow-mole should know better by now.

“You don’t surrender. I have learned,” I grunt in her ear as she continues to wriggle her ass against me. She manages to thrust a handful of snow in my face, and I sputter. “But haven’t you learned that I’m relentless?“ I punctuate the last word by flipping her onto her back and pinning her hips to the ground with mine.

“Relentless?” she gasps, “I would say ravenous.” A villainous glint in her beautiful cerulean eyes is the only warning I get before she’s stuffing fistfuls of snow into my face. I shake my head like a dog, then twitch my lips in an attempt to shake the snow from my mustache—the ends starting to freeze.

“You’re not wrong, woman, but can’t I be both?” I playfully snarl at her, burying my frosted face into the crook of her neck and nibbling while she squeals.

“Alright, alright! I concede!”

When I pull away and look at her, breath vacates my lungs all at once. Rosy cheeks—the tip of her nose too—her eyes sparkling and a smile so wide I almost worry it will split her face in two.

“Josephine.” Her name comes out on an exhale, sounding more like a plea. Her expression morphs slightly, taking on a hint of concern as she gazes up at me.

“What is it, husband?” Her fingers are freezing, but comforting nonetheless when she reaches up and cups my face.

“Josephine, I love you,” I rasp, my throat tightening as if caught in a vice. I’ve told girlfriends in the past that I loved them, sure, but compared to this? The young, teenage love I expressed in my younger years was like the flame from a match—fleeting. Whereas this feeling burning inside me now is more like the business end of a flamethrower—hot, fast, and consuming.

Her smile doesn’t falter, but it leaves her eyes nonetheless. My lungs are no longer strong enough to expand. I’m aware of how crazy this is. I’ve refrained from telling her my true feelings for a while now because it’s that crazy, but I thought…it truly felt like she was here on this insane level with me.

“Blaze,” she starts, her entire body sagging beneath me.

“Wait,” I interrupt. I can’t. “You don’t have to say anything. If you don’t feel the same—yet or at all—don’t say anything. I just…I couldn’t keep it inside anymore.” I scramble up to my feet, dragging her up with me by the arms. “Now, do you want to build a snowman?”

Albion kept me working like a dog these final days leading up to the Winter Festival, but I understand since the woodshop will be closed for the entire thing. The festival is a three-day event starting on the twentieth, and everyone left in town—or brave enough to risk the weather to leave their country homes—will be in attendance. Attendance primarily meaning down by the river and not wandering the streets. Even if Alby kept the shop open, no one would be around to venture in.

Okay, the extra workload is also partly my fault. When I first heard about the festival and all of the merchants that would be hawking wares, I dumbly suggested Albion set up a booth. Lucky me, he loved the idea and set Gus and me to work immediately prepping show pieces: an oak rocking chair, two beautiful chess boards, a massive mahogany hope chest, and various little shelves, bowls, and boards. I’m a good husband, however, and I told Alby I wouldn’t be available to run his booth under any circumstance, and thank God for that.

“Here! They’re all done!” Jo exclaims as she stomps up the stairs, fabric filling her arms. I meet her halfway, in nothing but a loose-fitting, long sleeve tunic, ye olde wannabe-boxers and my lucky socks. The decline in patrons to the modiste has been steady, leaving Jo more time than she knows what to do with, which is why she even had time to perfectly tailor this slate gray jacket and these navy trousers. I take the clothes from her one at a time so I can pull them on. In all the months I’ve been here, I’ve never worn something so perfectly fitting as I am now.

“Josephine, you minx,” I purr as I finish tying the trousers, admiring the fit in the full mirror. “Lord have mercy, I thought my ass looked decent in my Wranglers–what on earth have you done? I’d take a bite outta this cake myself if I could reach it.” Every other pair of britches I’ve worn since falling back here have been baggy and thin–worse than the cheap khakis I wore for that public speaking class I took in my senior year of high school.