resting his palm against the mound that felt so swollen and sensitized.
“Four seasons in one day, weren’t we, do you think?” he said softly. “Like the weather in the mountains.”
“We were, a bit,” she agreed. “Which season is this?” She stretched and wriggled against him.
“Summer,” he answered at once. “Warm and sleepy and happy. Sun on our skin.”
“Mmm, I like summer. And winter.”
“I like them all.”
“Me, too. I like the point when it changes. First snowfall. First hint of fall. That tiny shift, but really the whole earth is turning.”
“Yes, when you feel something new in the air, and you know it’s just the start.” Was he still talking about the seasons? She wasn’t sure if she was.
Deliberately, she brought it back to concrete detail, instead of words that could have two meanings. “Love the snowmelt swelling the creeks and rivers.”
“Love a hard frost turning the leaves in one night.”
“And hiking through those deep drifts of gold and brown, when the air smells all peaty and fresh.”
“You’re a real outdoorsy gal.”
“I am.”
“Like that. Like my women athletic.”
They talked, not saying anything very much, until they fell asleep.
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