Giant's kids were playing tag on the sky. Thunders, their steps, were shaking the wooden houses. Water jets were flowing on the windows. Rain was hitting the ground, raindrops sank in the huge muddy pools in the garden, drowned a dozen of carefully planted flowers. Wind hit the beams, fought against them and overturned everything around furiously. The fog, its best friend, hid its trails with white cloak.
Seven – she counted
The seventh peal threw the last flowerpot down of the sill.
Her eyes, big deep blue, were watching the storm with interest. The bathrobe was covering the wet body. Droplets of water were gliding over her hands and legs, saying goodbye to the wet cashmere hair and formed a puddle near the window. The steam of the hot shower was running away from the bathrobe, fogging the window inside.
The fog and the steam were plotters. They hindered her from seeing the wind devastation, the rain (crazily rustling in the leaves) and the neighbor's house – closed in the same way during the storm.
It isn't going to stop soon. – Neal said, relaxing on the couch. The book, opened on page 234, was lying on his chest. His eyes looked towards the window. What was he looking at – the storm or Kate?
