By the end of that year, before the snow arrived, Liam brought me to a place he frequented often when he wanted to get away from the noise and rush of small city life.
We sat on a bench, looking out across Lake Champlain and the tops of other lakeshore houses. He lived across town, near a closed campground, the smells of cedar and pine and campfire drifting around us. He served us two cups of steaming hot chocolate, and we stared out at a breathtaking view. “I added a splash of brandy,” he said, winking. “It’ll keep you warm.”
I sipped it, and found myself sliding closer to him in the darkening hours. I kissed him for the umpteenth time that evening, sliding my free hand into his, our fingers interlocking in a gesture that intimated that we were more than friends. We stared out at a canv
