"With this snow? The road will be impassable," he says flatly, setting down his carving knife with a deliberate click against the wood. "You're not going anywhere tonight."
My heart does a funny little flip. Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the windows. "Oh. Well... I guess..." I search for something cheerful to say, because that's what I do. Make things lighter. "Looks like Santa's workshop just got an extra elf."
He gives me a long, unreadable look, his gaze traveling from my snow-dusted red hat down to my boots, then back up to my face. Something flickers in those blue eyes. Not quite a smile. Not quite annoyance. Something in between that makes my skin feel too warm despite the cold still clinging to my coat.
Then he sighs, the sound rough and resigned. "You can hang your coat by the fire. Don't touch the tools."
"Got it," I say, stepping inside and pushing the door shut behind me. It clicks softly, sealing us in together as the wind howls louder and the snow starts falling in earnest, erasing my tire tracks, the road, everything.
Chapter 2
Beau
Shedoesn'tbelonguphere.
That's my first thought as the door closes behind her and she stands there dripping melted snow on my clean floor, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed like she just stepped off a Christmas card and into my carefully constructed solitude.
Faith Evans. I know her name from the email, the one I ignored for two days before finally replying with a time that was clearly stated astomorrow afternoon.I hadn't expected her to show up early, much less looking like…that.
Curvy hips in dark jeans that hug her just right. A red knit hat tipped to one side, soft yarn with a white pompom. Lips the colorof holly berries, curved in a smile that hasn't dimmed despite my less-than-welcoming greeting.
And that smile—like she doesn't know winter can kill you up here. Like she's never met a person she couldn't charm.
When she unwinds her scarf, soft brown hair tumbles free, catching the firelight.
"Wow," she says, eyes sweeping the room with undisguised wonder. They're hazel, I notice. Green with flecks of gold. "It's like Santa's workshop in real life."
I grunt, ignoring the warmth spreading through my chest at the compliment. Pretending I don't notice the way her sweater—forest green and fitted—shows off curves that make my chest ache. "You should've stayed in town. The plow won't clear this road till tomorrow. Maybe longer."
"I'll be fine," she says, cheerfully oblivious to the way my pulse jumps every time she moves, every time her vanilla-sugar scent drifts my way. She's already shrugging out of her coat, revealing more of that body-hugging sweater. "I've got cocoa in the car, a fully charged phone, and enough Christmas spirit to power the North Pole."
I set my carving knife down before I do something stupid… like imagine how it would feel to trace that smile with my thumb or to feel those soft lips under mine. "Christmas spirit won't keep you warm when the wind chill dips below freezing."
She laughs softly, the sound bubbling through the cabin like the crackle of the fire, unexpected and bright in my quiet space. "Lucky for me, it looks like you have plenty of firewood. And I wore layers."
I glance up and immediately regret it. Her coat's already hanging by the door, and that sweater is doing things to my concentration that should be illegal. She has the kind of body a man dreams about on long winter nights and spends the rest of the season trying to forget.
Soft. Generous. Warm.
I swallow hard, throat suddenly dry.Don't look, Lawson.
But I do. Because she's impossible not to look at.
"Fine," I mutter, forcing my attention back to the rocking horse. The wood grain blurs. "You can stay until the road's clear. Guest room's down the hall. Don't wander outside after dark. The snow's heavy, and I'm not dragging you out of a drift."
"Deal." She smiles again, radiant and warm, completely unfazed by my tone. She moves further into the cabin, fingers trailing along the workbench, examining the tools with genuine interest. "Don't touch the tools, don't wander into snowdrifts. Anything else?"
"Yeah." I reach for a log and toss it into the fire. Sparks leap up, orange and gold, shadows dancing over the walls. The wood hisses and pops, settling into the coals. "Don't expect me to be good company."
She steps closer—too close—and I catch the full force of that scent. Sweet vanilla and something softer, warmer. Like sugar cookies cooling on a windowsill. Like Christmas morning when you're a kid and everything still feels possible.
Her eyes meet mine, all mischief and light, fearless in a way that makes my chest tighten.
"Then it's a good thing I'm excellent company," she says.
And for the first time in years, something inside me thaws.
The ice around my chest cracks, just a little. Just enough to let the warmth in.
