A lone snowflake lands on my nose, snapping me back into focus.
Stop.
Stop thinking about Hank.
He doesn’t matter. He isn’t here.
The tightness in my chest eases when the cabin comes fully into view. Surrounded by a small grove of trees, it gleams like a Christmas oasis. Snowflake wind chimes dangle, clinking lightly, from a frosted eave. The wide front porch with its green front door. A pyramid of firewood perfectly stacked. Festive glittery lights strung along the sloped roof.
For what feels like the first time in three years, a surge of joy overtakes me. To me, this cabin is home. It’s always been home.
I move quicker this time, out of hope, out of happy, patting my front pocket to ensure my key is ready. My body purrs at the sleep I plan to catch up on. My fingers itch to paint until I’ve gone Van Gogh. My mouth waters in anticipation of the food I plan to eat, ready to tuck into life-changing carbohydrates like it’s a matter of life or death. Two strides from the front porch, a loud hacking sound hits my ears.
Going stock still, like a doe scenting danger, I scan my surroundings. Someone’s on the property. Someone’s onmyproperty.
I steel a breath, yank off my gloves and wedge my key between my thumb and forefinger like a claw. Then, leaving the sled, I hustle around the cabin, prepared to give the trespasser a piece of my mind. Because peacefrommy mind is what I desperately need these next few days.
But, as I stumble through the trees, I forget my bearings. I haven’t been here in over a year. I trip over a tree stump and run smack dab into a Fraser fir.
Then a shock of olive-green flannel. A hard body. A thunderous grunt.
I look up.
Oh God. My worst nightmare.
My ex-husband.
“Bellamy?”
I freeze at the voice. That fucking rough, gravelly voice that still haunts my dreams.
Hank straightens, big hands clenched around an axe. Below him is a tree stump. On top of that, a split log that looks comically small in comparison to Hank’s wildly tall frame.
I jump back, putting much-needed space between us. “Jesus, Hank.”
Every emotion I own pools in my belly like warm honey. I hate it. It feels like a thousand years since I left Hank, since we signed divorce papers, but the man is still as unfairly handsomeas ever. With his golden-brown hair and deep sapphire eyes, Hank Blue is one dreamboat of a cowboy.
“What are you doing here?”
One brow rockets straight up on his rugged face. “Me?”
“Yes. You.” I frown when I notice that, despite the windchill, he stubbornly wears a cowboy hat and a lone flannel in lieu of a jacket.
The scruff on his face is new. Not quite a beard, but effortless laziness, like he can’t be bothered to shave. A few more faint crinkles line the corner of his eyes.
I like both.
My core tightens.
A muscle jerks in his jaw. He looks down at the chopping block, his broad shoulders lowering. I bet he wishes that log was my head.
“What.”
Chop.
“Are.”
Chop.
