Read Online Snowed In by Rachel Hawthorne - Free Book Online Page A

instead of sand.” I went further than that. I imagined everyone bundled up, rolling around trying to get the ball.
    Athletic ability was certain to be lacking. I snickered at the thought. “I don’t see how it can be very competitive.”
    “It’s entertaining, if nothing else. Come and watch us play,” he said. “We’ll be on the beach—”
    “There is no beach,” I reminded him.
    “There is in the summer. We use the beach volleyball nets. You’ll be able to see us from your window, but it’s better up close.” It had definitely been better with him up close on the ladder.
    He suddenly seemed nervous, maybe thinking the same thing I was, and started rolling the paint over the wall very quickly, almost obsessively, like get this done and get out of here.
    “I think Mom’s planning on us practicing to 85
    have a tea party this afternoon,” I said.
    “Oh, that’ll be way more fun,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
    I laughed, because he was so right. And what girl in her right mind would willingly choose watercress and cheddar sandwiches over watching hot guys play volleyball, even if they’d look like the Michelin tire guy while doing it?
    He turned to look at me. “I like your laugh.” Which made me stop laughing, because something in his eyes told me he liked more than just my laughter.
    As though neither of us knew quite what to do with this attraction, we both returned to painting—furiously.
    We’d be finished before teatime.
    Thinking about watching Josh play volleyball gave me very little patience for sitting down for tea.
    Afternoon tea is supposed to be calm and relaxing, but all I wanted was for it to be over with.
    I stood in the kitchen, cutting crusts off the bread of our cream cheese, cheddar cheese, and watercress sandwiches.
    “I want to find a summertime drink to offer in the afternoons,” Mom said.
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    “How ’bout lemonade?”
    “That’s so unoriginal. I was thinking something more unique.” Mom took a bite of the sandwich, which she’d cut into little triangles.
    Any other time, I probably would have thought the tiny sandwiches were cute. But I had watching-a-cute-guy on the brain. And cute guy always wins out over cute sandwiches.
    “It’s pretty good,” Mom said.
    I took a bite. It was.
    Mom took a Post-it note and drew three stars on it. She had a cookbook system: three stars—like it, want to serve it again; two stars—it’s okay in a pinch; one star—tried it once, never again. She slapped the Post-it on the page in her Teatime cookbook. “One down, about two hundred to go.” I was horrified. “We’re not going to make all those sandwiches, are we?”
    “Well, no, not all of them, but we need to have a nice selection, and I certainly don’t want to serve something I haven’t tasted. And then there are all the yummy desserts.”
    Speaking of yummy . . .
    Now was probably the time to tell Mom that I wanted to cut the teatime short.
    The doorbell rang.
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    “I’ll get it,” I said, hopping out of the chair.
    “Wonder who it could be,” Mom murmured.
    It was Nathalie.
    “Heard there was going to be a tea party.
    Thought you could use rescuing,” she whispered.
    How had she heard that? Had my mom talked to hers? Not that it mattered. She was as welcome as a Saint Bernard, following an avalanche.
    She peered around me into the hallway. “Hi, Ms. Sneaux.”
    “Would you like to join us for tea?” Mom asked.
    “Uh, no, actually, the guys are playing volleyball. I thought Ashleigh would like to watch. Is that okay?”
    “Of course,” Mom said. “Y’all go have fun.”
    “Thanks, Mom.” I gave her a quick hug before grabbing my parka from the hall closet. I pulled my knit cap down over my ears and put on my gloves as I followed Nathalie outside.
    “Thanks so much,” I said. “We were making finger sandwiches.”
    She laughed. “Wait until your mom decides to have a tea tasting.”
    We went down the steps. “Excuse me? A tea