Just enough to be dangerous.
Chapter 3
Faith
Thecabincreakslikeit's breathing with the wind.
Outside, the storm rages, snow falling in thick white sheets that slam against the windows, wind howling through the pines like something wild and untamed. Inside, the fire snaps and glows, painting the walls in shades of gold and amber, creating shadows that dance and shift with each flicker of flame.
I'm supposed to be reorganizing the toys Beau finished carving, lining up little trains with wheels that actually turn, dolls with jointed limbs and hand-painted faces, wooden animals so lifelike I can almost see them breathe. But my focus keeps drifting back to the man himself.
Beau Lawson. Toymaker, hermit, professional scowler.
His broad shoulders roll beneath that flannel as he works, big hands steady and sure as he stacks fresh-cut wood near the hearth. Every flex of muscle draws my eyes straight to him. The way his jeans sit low on his hips. The way his sleeves are rolled up to reveal forearms corded with strength, dusted with dark hair, marked with thin white scars from years of working with sharp tools.
When he turns, I pretend to admire a rocking horse.
"This one's incredible," I say quickly, running my hand over the smooth curve of its mane. The wood is silky under my palm, polished to perfection. "You even burned the grain into the wood for texture. And look at the detail in the saddle. Kids are going to love it."
He grunts, wiping sawdust off his hands with a rag. "That's the idea."
"Do you sell these anywhere? Like, at craft fairs or online?"
"Nope."
"You could," I press, smiling up at him. "Seriously, people would pay a fortune for work like this. Custom orders alone would—"
"Not interested."
I blink. "In money?"
"In people." He says it matter-of-factly, without apology. Then he moves past me to adjust a lamp, his arm brushing mine. The brief contact sends electricity skittering across my skin.
"Wow, you really know how to keep a conversation going."
That earns me alook.Half glare, half smirk. The corner of his mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile.
Progress.
I turn back to the shelves, humming under my breath.Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.It's habit; I sing when I'm nervous. And Beau Lawson makes me nervous in a way that'sfar too pleasant, that makes my stomach flutter and my skin feel tight.
After a few minutes, I find a battered tin on his counter, next to a French press and a jar of honey. "Is this cocoa mix?"
"Probably," he says, moving to the fire. "Left from last winter."
"That's practically brand new. I'll make us some."
He raises a brow. "Us?"
"Yes, us." I fill the kettle at his deep farmhouse sink, looking out the window at nothing but snow. The world has disappeared. It's just us now, sealed in this cabin like we're the only two people left in existence. "Because you're a human being who deserves warmth and chocolate."
His eyes darken a little at that—something unreadable flickering there, almost vulnerable—but he doesn't stop me. I call that a win.
While the water heats on the vintage cast-iron stove, I dig through his cupboards until I find mismatched mugs: one plain and chipped, one with a faded snowman wearing a crooked hat. When the hot chocolate is ready, I hand him the snowman mug because it feels like poetic justice.
He takes it reluctantly, long fingers wrapping around the ceramic. When they brush mine, the touch lingers—just a second, maybe two—but it's enough to make my breath catch. The spark that jumps between us is almost visible, crackling like static electricity.
"Thanks," he mutters, voice rougher than before.
