Hearing the way he addressed her, Thea Lynch wished she could bury her head in the ground, not wanting him to see her flushed cheeks.
But the three words that followed made her heart skip a beat.
Ian Preston suddenly apologized to her.
At first it seemed without reason, but Thea knew well why he was apologizing.
That snow when she was seventeen, she finally saw at twenty-five.
Thea turned her head, sneaking a glance out the window.
Through the glass, as if covered with a filter, snowflakes fluttered down, vast and boundless, but landing silently as if afraid to disturb anything in the world.
Did she like watching the snow?
Not really.
In the past few years, the winters in Coronet and Westmere had quite a bit of snow, two or three snowfalls a year at least. If worse came to worst, her brother would take time during winter break to go skiing with her in the Northeast, and her mother would take time to take her abroad to see the snow.
