An impressionist work of art, Nick wanted to say, sarcastically – they had better pay you to clear the park of snow instead. But apparently the more unkind he wanted to be, the less he felt his tongue would let him: instead, he stared at the younger fellow and the pile of snow that was slouching terribly in much the same way he was, the leaning tower of Pisa of snowmen, and still insisted, oddly and profusely bright, “No, really – you’re the winner in my book.”

Nick blinked at himself, and felt a flush spreading up his neck that was not from the cold weather. No, he definitely hadn’t meant that.

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