Adrien took off after him, moving fast enough that Marcus' laughter turned into genuine squeals. Sophieie materialized next to Lena. "You should hit Thomas while he's distracted." This eight-year-old was absolutely recruiting her into some ongoing sibling war. Lena looked at the snowball in her hand, then at Thomas, who was indeed focused on building a wall of snow.
What the hell? She wasn't dead yet. She threw the snowball. It hit Thomas square in the shoulder. He spun around, betrayal written all over his face.
"Dad, the guest is on Sophieie's team. That's not fair." "All's fair and love and snowball fights," Adrien called back, currently being pelted by both boys, while Sophieie cackled with glee. And then it was chaos. "Everyone against everyone, alliances forming and breaking, snow flying in every direction.
Lena found herself laughing, actually laughing, as she dodged a throw from Marcus and immediately got hit by one from Adrien. Traitor, he yelled at her, grinning. You said all's fair. I lied. They played until everyone was soaked and freezing, and Sophieie's face was so red from the cold, Adrien called.
Time out. Back inside, he made everyone change into dry clothes and distributed hot chocolate like it was medicine. Lena borrowed sweats from the same closet that had produced the jacket, rolling up the waistband twice so they'd stay on. When she came back downstairs, the kids were sprawled in the living room with some animated movie playing on a TV the size of her first car. Adrien was in the kitchen stirring something on the stove that smelled like tomatoes and garlic.
Making lunch? She asked. Soup. Figured everyone could use something warm. He glanced at her.
You settle in. Okay. Your wife was taller than me. Yeah, she was. No sadness in his voice.
Just statement of fact. Catherine, she'd have liked you, I think. You don't know me. I know you're good with kids. Know you can throw a decent snowball.
No, you didn't run screaming when Thomas explained his theory about aliens living in the ocean. He added something to the pot that sizzled. That's enough. Lena leaned against the counter, watching him cook. Can I ask you something?
Sure. What do you do for work? Investment firm, financial advising, asset management, that kind of thing. He said it like it was boring, which it probably was to him. Nothing exciting, but successful.
Successful enough. He tasted the soup, added salt. Why? Just trying to figure out if this is real or if I'm going to wake up and find out it was all hypothermia hallucinations. that got a smile out of him. If it helps, I'm wondering the same thing.