Getting Lucky in DecemberNicole Steinberg
Snow White-fresh, you wandered into a forest, pushed your way through the tangled ferny undergrowth, and breathed in zesty green enchantment. Freezing your behind off, you curled up in front of a fireplace in a charming farm-cum-hotel-cum-spa with clusters of chambray napkins, vivid pink candlesticks, ornate little knives and spoons; French wine bottles like shimmery crack vials. The winters do get chilly. You shed your sweater in the rustic boudoir—a beautiful centerpiece draped, nymph-like, over a paisley pillow. Tea rose to scent your underthings, hibiscus in your hair, you blushed and opened like a locket.
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