The front door of the bed and breakfast opens, and the foyer is briefly blasted with biting Arctic air before it is hastily slammed. Snowflakes swirl, land, and melt around the figure that has just entered.

"Holy fuck," she exclaims, dropping her bag and unwinding the scarf from around her neck.

"Yes, that does seem to be the general sentiment," a pleasant-looking man replies as he walks towards her. "I presume you are the Abigail Mills with whom I spoke ten minutes ago?"

"Yes," she confirms. "You don't know how glad I am you had a vacancy. The snow is getting ridiculous out there."

"The interstate highways have just been closed," the man says. "Andy Brooks," he introduces himself, extending his hand. "Welcome to Ned & Breakfast."

Abbie pulls her mitten off and shakes his hand. "You know that's a really weird name, right?" she asks.

He nods, laughing. "Well, according to my late father-in-law Ned, the name was supposed to be 'Ned's Bed & Breakfast', but everyone kept calling it 'Ned & Breakfast', so he just changed it," he explains with a shrug. "Come. I'll show you to your room."

She follows him up the stairs, noting the festive holiday decorations all around. It's all very tasteful and not at all overdone. "You guys going to have any big events for Christmas?" she asks.

"Not really. Just business as usual. We thought about having some kind of special event, but decided against it. We'll of course be having a traditional Christmas dinner for the guests staying here, but that's about it," he answers. "Here we are. I mentioned your room adjoins the one next door, but you both have locks on your own side, so you'll be perfectly safe."

"That's fine," she replies, looking around the room. It looks exactly like one would expect a B&B in upstate New York to look at this time of year: sumptuous four-poster bed dressed in deep red linens, lit fireplace (gas, for convenience and safety) with stockings hung, and a small Christmas tree in one corner. There is also a plush armchair with a red and green quilt artfully draped over it. "This is lovely, thanks," she adds.

"Dinner will be down in the dining room in an hour," Ned says. "The bathroom is right across the hall."

"Thanks again," Abbie answers, peeling her coat off. The one thing she doesn't like about this sort of lodging is the shared bathroom. But there were no other hotels with any vacancy nearby, and the heavily falling snow made her desperate.

She sinks down onto the chair with a heavy sigh and begins untying her boots. Her phone pings in her coat pocket, but before she can look at it, a sound from the other side of the connecting door takes her attention. It sounds like a muffled curse word, and she looks up at the door, slightly amused. She pulls her boot off and starts on the second one.

"Oh, sod it all!"

That was much clearer, and this time she could make out the rich baritone timbre of his voice as well as the English accent.

"Charming," she mutters with a chuckle, then removes her other boot. She remembers her phone and retrieves it from her pocket to see a text from Jenny.

U okay?

She types a quick reply, telling her sister where she is, not to worry, and stay safe, then hears a door slam followed by an apology in the hallway.

She thinks about peeking out to see who her mysterious, unhappy neighbor is, but decides changing into dry clothes is a better idea.

Maybe I'll see him at dinner.

xXx

Abbie heads down to dinner about five minutes before the prescribed time, wanting to make sure she can have her pick of the seats. The only person in the dining room is a petite woman with brown hair who is bustling around.

"Oh!" She startles when she turns around and sees Abbie. "You must be our refugee from the storm," she says.

"Abbie, and yes," she introduces herself with a smile. "I'm sorry for being too early… I have this thing about being punctual."

"Oh, no, no, it's fine. Everyone else staying here right now apparently does not share your compulsion," she assures her. "I'm Zoe. You met my husband earlier."

"Ah, so you must be the late Ned's daughter," Abbie says. "May I sit?"

"Of course," Zoe answers, smiling. Just then a young couple enter the dining room, followed by a middle-aged couple.

"Everyone, this is Abbie, brought to us by the blizzard," Zoe says as everyone sits. "Abbie this is Sophie and Betsy," she introduces, gesturing to the young couple, "and Frank and Cynthia." Everyone exchanges pleasantries, and Zoe briefly wrings her hands. "Does… does anyone know if Dr. Crane will be joining us?"

"Your guess is as good as any of ours," Cynthia answers. "I ran into him in the hallway upstairs, and he was in a mood. Again."

"Oh, dear," Zoe says.

Abbie decides Cynthia must have been the person to whom the mysterious Dr. Crane apologized, and her curiosity is now further piqued.

"He's trying to write a book," Betsy whispers beside Abbie, filling her in. "We don't think it's going very—"

"Oh! Dr. Crane!" Zoe exclaims, a little too brightly. "We were just wondering if you were going to be joining us for dinner."

"I fear I need the break, thank you Mrs. Brooks," Crane says, his expression tight as he sits. Peevish. Then the tension in his face eases a bit, and he says, "But if that is indeed lasagna I smell, perhaps the evening will not be a total loss."

Zoe simpers and blushes. "Yes it is. You have an amazing sense of smell," she says, seeming strangely flustered. "Andy should be bringing it out any second now. I… I should go help him."

As she scurries away, Abbie tears her gaze away from the handsome doctor to give Betsy a puzzled look. Both Betsy and Sophie simply shake their heads in befuddlement.

Frank clears his throat. "Um, Dr. Crane, this is Abbie," he introduces, since Zoe never bothered. "She just got here tonight. Stranded by the blizzard. Abbie, Dr. Ichabod Crane."

"Hi," Abbie says, smiling at him, deciding to be polite to the cranky Englishman. He does indeed seem to be in a mood, but he is undeniably handsome and his unusually formal manners make him seem even more attractive.

He simply blinks at her from across the table as though he cannot quite process what he is seeing. Then he says, "Very nice to meet you."

Abbie thinks she hears Sophie stifle a giggle, but then Andy and Zoe return, their arms laden with food. The lasagna does indeed smell amazing, and it is only enhanced by the scent of the garlic bread. Abbie hadn't realized how hungry she was until just now.

Food is passed around, drinks are poured, and polite conversation is made.

"So, Abbie," Frank says, turning towards her. "What line of work are you in?"

Abbie swallows what she had been chewing. "I'm with the FBI," she answers, the braces herself for the inevitable exclamations and barrage of questions.

"Really?"

"Wow, that's really cool!"

"But you're so tiny!"

"Hey now, she's probably heard all those before, settle down," Frank interjects, surprising her by saving her.

"Here we go," Cynthia mutters into her wineglass, just before Frank speaks again.

"I was with the NYPD for 25 years," he says. "Injury forced me to retire, so now I spend my time getting on Cynthia's nerves and doing consulting work."

Everyone laughs politely, then Abbie and Frank continue talking about law enforcement while the others move on to other topics.

"How is your book going, Dr. Crane?" Andy asks a few minutes later, and everyone falls silent, curious.

"Not as smoothly as I would like, as some of you may have guessed," he answers, giving Cynthia an apologetic nod. "Miss Molly Pitcher is giving me quite the headache at the moment. There are at least two different women who are believed to have been her, and I cannot resolve the issue."

"Can't you just address it like that in your book?" Abbie blurts. He gives her that incredulous look again, and she feels heat rising to her cheeks. "I mean… um… what is your book about?"

"Women who posed as men to fight in wars," he answers.

"Oh, like Deborah Sampson and Cathay Williams," Abbie replies.

He nods, looking quite surprised. He recovers, then says, "I am aware that Miss Pitcher does not technically fall into that category, but as she is one of the most well-known female figures from the American Revolution, I felt it would be an oversight to not include her."

"Well, you could just… not," Abbie recommends. "Since, as you said, she doesn't really fit into the theme of your book – which sounds amazing, by the way. Maybe you could do a follow-up about the role of women in wars throughout history. Like, women who didn't have to cross-dress."

"An interesting idea. And it would give me more time to further research," he responds, nodding thoughtfully, his hand coming up to stroke his beard.

Abbie's eyes are drawn to his elegant, long-fingered hand, and her traitorous brain immediately began thinking of all the things those hands could do to a girl like her. A girl who clearly hasn't had any in far too long and clearly is currently unable to discern if he is sexy or just tall.

"Sorry," she apologizes, realizing his book is really none of her concern. "It's your book; you write what you want to write. You don't need input from some stranger who has a bad habit of speaking exactly what is on her mind whether it's in her lane or not."

"No, no," he assures her. "You raised two very valid points that I shall definitely consider."

It is then Abbie realizes that the rest of the diners are staring at them. She has no way of knowing that she is the first person whose thoughts he has even entertained about the content of his book. The first person who has been able to engage him in an actual two-sided conversation about it.

"So…" she ventures, looking around the table. "I take it you're some sort of history professor then?" she asks.

"I am indeed, at Cornell," he answers. "I thought the solitude of this inn would lend me the correct atmosphere in which to write during this winter break, but alas, it seems solitude is a poor muse, at least for me." He takes a drink of his wine and says, "I did not even realize it was snowing."

Frank openly laughs at that, saying, "Well, maybe if you came out of your room for more than just meals, you'd be more aware of the weather."

Crane half-nods. "While you have a point, the weather is of little concern to me at this juncture."

"It isn't healthy to close yourself away like that," Zoe ventures.

"Zoe, he's a grown man and can do what he wants," Andy says, patting her hand. He stands. "Anyone for dessert? I've got pecan pie and blueberry pie."

"Blueberry? This time of year?" Sophie blurts.

"Trust me," Andy says, looking very sure of himself.

"I'm in," Sophie nods. Frank and Cynthia opt out, excusing themselves, but the ladies all remain.

"I need to see how your pecan pie measures up to my gran's," Abbie says when Andy returns, a pie in each hand.

"Oh I doubt I can live up to that kind of standard, but can I guarantee it's not going to kill you," he answers.

"Well, that's reassuring," Abbie laughs. She catches Crane watching her, and the intensity of his stare causes her laughter to die in a self-conscious cough. She reaches for her wine and takes a drink, avoiding his cerulean gaze.

While Andy begins cutting and serving, Betsy leans over again. "I think Crane is into you," she whispers.

"What?"

"Betsy? Blueberry or pecan?" Andy asks.

"Pecan," she answers. "Not a fan of blueberries, sorry."

He doesn't ask Abbie, knowing her preference. "Dr. Crane? One of each, as usual?"

"Yes, please," Crane answers.

As Abbie digs into her pie, she can't help noticing the professor's rail-thin physique. She also remembers how he packed away two good-sized pieces of lasagna, a nice helping of salad, and at least two pieces of bread.

"We think he's completely hollow inside," Sophie says, not caring if he hears her.

"I have always been slender, despite my best efforts," he simply answers, his attention on his plate.

"Andy, this pie isn't my gran's, but it's damn good," Abbie pronounces. "Damn good."

"Thanks," he replies, pleased with her praise.

When they are all done, he says, "Since we seem to be snowed in, Zoe and I will be putting out some board games and other indoor diversions in the parlor if anyone is interested."

They all express their thanks for the dinner and drift back to their rooms.

xXx

Abbie sits in her room, checking her email on her laptop. She's technically off-duty now, but is so bored she's checking work emails.

Indoor diversions in the parlor. I bet they don't include indoor diversions like seeing if the myth is true about tall, skinny guys with big hands and feet.

She sighs, closes her laptop, and quietly leaves her room. She heads downstairs to see if anyone is around.

The parlor is deserted, but the aforementioned games are sitting out, along with a few decks of cards and some books.

She sighs again and heads back upstairs. She pauses outside her door, debating.

"Screw it," she mutters, then walks the few steps to the next door. After another pause, she raises her fist and knocks.

The door is opened a moment later by a puzzled-looking Ichabod Crane. He is still wearing his shirt and pants, but his feet are bare and his sleeves are rolled up. He stares down at Abbie, in her fuzzy polka-dot pants and hoodie, her hair tied up.

"Hi," she says. "I know you're trying to write, but—"

"I have given up for the evening," he interjects. "With what can I help you?"

"I'm guessing you play chess."

"Of course I play chess."

She angles her head at him in a silent invitation. "There's a chess board down in the parlor."

"One of the 'indoor diversions', I presume?"

"You up for it?"

He steps out, closing the door behind him. "Are you certain you wish to walk this path, Miss…?"

"Mills, but you can call me Abbie."

"Are you certain you wish to walk this path, Miss Mills?"

She straightens up, squaring her shoulders. "Bring it, Brit boy," she says, then turns and strides down the hall, assuming he will follow.

"God, give me strength," Crane whispers to himself as he watches this diminutive Aphrodite stride away, her perfect, round backside just taunting him from beneath the fuzzy polka dots.

xXx

He wins the first game. She wins the second. He blames himself for being overconfident after his initial victory.

She tells him she spent the first game learning his technique.

That gets under his skin, and he further straightens his ramrod-straight back. "Miss Mills, I am an historian, specializing in warfare and battle strategy."

She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand as she smiles over at him. "Dr. Crane, I am a profiler for the FBI. That means I specialize in reading people and predicting their next move."

Her words, plus the fact that her position gives him a very nice view of her cleavage, throw him. He has worked very hard to school his fidgeting and twitching when he plays chess, but still she saw through him. "Be that as it may," he counters, clearing his throat, "we still need one more match to settle the stalemate."

"Oh, so you're not content ending in a tie?" she asks. "Competitive, aren't we?" His eyebrow twitches upward and he begins resetting the board.

She joins in, grabbing her pieces, and he asks, "Shall we increase the stakes?"

She notices he appears to be talking to the board, not her, but answers, "What, like a bet?" He nods. "I'd feel bad taking your money," she says, smiling impishly at him.

"I'm not exactly certain your confidence is not misplaced," he replies. "But we need not involve money."

"Strip chess? I think that might take a while. Unless we go by pieces captured rather than full game victories," she answers, immensely gratified when his face flushes bright red. It simply confirms the other thing she observed about him during their two games of chess: He's attracted to her, too.

"Let us just say that the winner can decide how he wishes to be compensated," he suggests.

"Or she," she counters. "You can go first," she says with a wave of her hand.

"Do we have an accord then?" he asks, offering his hand.

She takes it and shakes it. "Yes."

Let's see if I'm brave enough to ask for what I want if I win.

xXx

He looks dejected. Dejected, but somehow hopeful. "It seems you have bested me after all, Miss Mills."

"It seems I have, Dr. Crane," she replies.

"And what is it you desire?" he asks, his voice somehow sounding deeper and softer than before.

She looks at him, hiding her wringing hands under the table. "I'll tell you upstairs," she says.

Then she leaves the table, leaving him staring, dumbfounded, for about two seconds, before he quickly follows.

She is waiting outside her door. "Ichabod," she says, trying out his unusual first name. It hadn't escaped her attention that everyone called him "Dr. Crane" despite addressing one another by their first names. She wasn't sure if it was out of respect or intimidation, but she decided this is an occasion for familiarity.

"Miss Mills," he replies.

"Abbie," she prompts as he comes closer.

"Abbie," he echoes, nearly a whisper.

"I would like a good-night kiss," she tells him.

He moves to stand right in front of her, so close his feet are on either side of hers on the rug.

"I think I can accommodate that request," he murmurs, then leans down, his hand coming up to gently cradle her face just before his lips brush against hers in a light, soft kiss.

"I think you can do better than that," she whispers, her lips still centimeters from his.

Something seems to snap loose inside of him and he descends upon her again, his lips hungrily claiming hers this time.

His arms seem to wind endlessly around her slender body and she melts into him, trying to pull herself higher, closer.

"Wait…" she gasps, breaking away. He immediately begins apologizing so profusely that he doesn't notice she is digging in her pocket for her key.

She opens the door, grabs his shirt, and yanks him inside, closing the door behind them.

"Oh," he croaks, staring dazedly down at her.

His sudden lack of movement gives Abbie pause. "Is this okay? Because I thought—"

Crane suddenly pulls her back into his arms. "I have been wanting you since I laid eyes on you at dinner," he rumbles.

"You can lay anything you want on me," she replies, worming one arm in between them to unzip her hoodie. He pushes it from her shoulders, revealing a simple gray tank top underneath that doesn't conceal much at all.

"Is that a guarantee?" he asks, his fingers trailing down her arms while he bends his head to kiss her neck.

"Yeah," she breathes, tugging him by his shirt again until they reach the bed, which she had already turned down. "But I'm gonna get a stiff neck if we keep standing."

"Quite," he agrees, following her onto the bed, where he looms over her. "Yes," he declares, kissing her, "this is much better." His hand starts pushing up her tank top until it finds the soft but firm skin of her stomach. He groans.

Her fingers have been busy with the buttons of his shirt, and when he feels her small hands on his skin, he groans again, louder.

She pushes his shirt off, and now it is his turn to say, "Wait."

"What is it?" she asks.

"We should… that is… we need to be responsible," he says. "I have no condoms with me, as I did not anticipate meeting such a goddess as yourself."

"I don't have any either," she replies, smiling. "I've never been called a goddess before."

"Then you have gone sorely under-appreciated," he answers, leaning down to kiss her some more.

"Ichabod," she says, framing his face with her hands. "Focus," she chuckles.

He clears his throat. "Yes… it seems we are in a bit of a conundrum. I… I suppose I could see if Mr. Brooks or Captain Irv—"

"Are you clean?" she asks, interrupting him.

"What?"

"Are. You. Clean?" she repeats, punctuating her words with kisses.

"Yes."

"So am I," she replies, kissing him deeply. "And I'm on birth control."

His eyes flash and he delves back in, picking up right where they stopped earlier, returning his hand where it was and pushing it higher, closing over her breast.

"Mmm," she sighs, running her hands over his warm skin as he kisses lower. Somehow her tank top finds its way to the floor and his trousers are opened.

"I cannot believe… you beat me…" Crane gasps, alternating his words with bites, licks, and kisses over her neck and breasts. "I was… Oxford's chess champion… two years running…"

Abbie laughs, her small, strong fingers tangled in his hair, guiding his face back up to hers, where she places a searing kiss on his swollen lips. "You were the one who suggested upping the stakes. Don't play if you can't afford to lose, Professor," she retorts, then sucks his lower lip into her mouth as her sneaky hand slips down the front of his pants, drawing a groan from him.

His groan turns into a growl and he pulls away from her, yanking her pajama pants down and off, followed by her equally fuzzy socks. He pauses just a moment to hungrily take in the sight of her before quickly divesting himself of his pants and boxers.

"I cannot recall ever wanting someone as desperately as I do you," he murmurs once he is over her once more. "It is like you have cast a spell over me."

"I know," she agrees, and the thought gives her pause. He notices and lifts his head. "Let's just enjoy tonight and not think about what happens later," she says, addressing the unspoken elephant that has slipped into the room.

"Well then I intend to make the most of this night," he rumbles, sliding his hand from her hip to her knee and pulling it up against his side.

"Good," she answers, hooking her leg around his back and pulling him closer.

His eyebrow rises and his lips curl into a rather lewd, hungry smile just before he drops his hips and finds his home.

xXx

Abbie stirs, the grayish light of morning penetrating her eyelids enough to draw her into wakefulness. She snuggles deeper into the bed, her body semi-unconsciously seeking out the warm body that should be there.

The warm body that played hers like a virtuoso nearly all night.

He's not there. The bed isn't even warm. She peeps one eye open and sees the dented pillow beside her. She frowns, but then she hears something. A faint tapping sound.

She turns over and sees him sitting in his boxer briefs and a plain black t-shirt, furiously typing on his laptop, his brows knit in concentration.

"Ichabod?" she softly calls, not really wishing to disturb him.

He immediately looks up and his scowl melts into a tender smile. "I seem to have found a new muse," he says. "You unlocked the door that was blocking my progress, my treasure."

"Mmm, glad I could help," she sleepily replies. She stretches and groans, muscles she forgot she had protesting with the movement.

"Yes, my body feels a bit worse for wear this morning as well," he observes, talking as he types. "But I do not regret one second."

"Me neither," she agrees. "Oh, what I wouldn't give for a nice, hot bath."

"There is a tub in the bathroom across the hall," he suggests.

"Yeah, the bathroom that I have to share."

"With me. The young ladies and the Irvings have a separate one," he answers.

Abbie sits up, her hand automatically going to her head. Thankfully, she had the presence of mind to wrap her hair up before they finally succumbed to exhaustion. She unties the silk scarf and neatly folds it. "Really?" she asks.

He looks at her again. "Really." He closes his laptop, then says, "I do not know if you had noticed, but it is a rather large tub as well."

"Is that so?" she asks, reaching down to retrieve the shirt he had on last night. She puts it on, wearing it like an oversized dress.

He stands. "You know, Ithaca is not that far from Syracuse," he says, extending his hand. She had told him she had been on her way from the City back up to Syracuse when the storm caused her to stop.

"Only about an hour," she agrees, taking the offered hand. "And you have summers off, right?"

"I do," he confirms, pulling her into his arms. "I would very much like to see where this," he motions between them, "leads." Then he softly kisses her. "And I cannot accept the prospect of never seeing you again."

"Oh good," she says, winding her arms up around his shoulders. "Because I feel the same way." She kisses him, then pulls away and asks, "Is it still snowing?"

He angles his head at her. "Do you truly care?"

"Not really," she answers, tugging him towards the door.