When she turns, she catches me looking. Instead of blushing or looking away, she smiles—slow and knowing, like she understands exactly what she's doing to me.
"You really don't get many visitors, do you?"
"Not the kind who wear Santa hats and smell like sugar cookies."
Her laugh spills out, low and warm, more intimate than it should be. "Guess I'll take that as a compliment."
I don't trust myself to answer. My hands flex uselessly at my sides, aching to touch. To see if her skin is as soft as it looks. To find out if she tastes as sweet as she smells.
"You should, uh, get some sleep," I manage, voice coming out rougher than intended. "Guest room's down the hall. Extra blankets on the shelf if you need them."
She tilts her head, studying me with those too-perceptive eyes. "You're trying to get rid of me."
"I'm trying to be a gentleman."
Her gaze lingers on me for a heartbeat too long. Then she nods slowly, stands, and brushes past, so close her sleeve grazes my arm. So close I can feel the warmth radiating off her body. The faint scent of vanilla trails behind her, sweet and haunting, wrapping around me like smoke.
"Goodnight, Beau," she says softly.
When her door clicks shut down the hall, I stare into the fire until the embers blur.
Because for the first time in a long while, I'm not thinking about wood or solitude or silence.
I'm thinking about the woman in my guest room.
About the curve of her smile and the light in her eyes.
About how much longer I can pretend I don't want her.
Chapter 5
Faith
WhenIwakethenext day, I see that the storm hasn't let up. Snow piles halfway up the porch rails, soft and pristine as whipped cream. The world beyond the windows is nothing but white, the trees mere shadows in the distance. Inside, the cabin glows with firelight and smells like strong coffee.
I follow the scent to the kitchen, spotting Beau at the stove. He made breakfast while I slept, and the realization makes something soft unfurl in my chest.
Actual breakfast. Pancakes. Slightly lopsided, perfectly golden, stacked high on a chipped plate.
I sit at his worn kitchen table, the wood smooth under my palms from years of use, pretending not to stare while he flipsanother one onto the stack. He's rolled his flannel sleeves up again, and I watch the flex of muscles in his forearms, the capable way his hands move.
"You cook, you carve, you brood," I say. "Anything youdon'tdo?"
He glances over his shoulder, and there it is—a real smile this time, small but genuine. "Talk much."
"Well, you're improving."
A sound escapes him—half laugh, half sigh—and it feels like a bigger victory than it should. We eat side by side at the small table, our knees bumping now and then, the silence easy for once. Comfortable. When he reaches for the syrup, his hand brushes mine and stays there a second too long. Heat zips up my arm, spreads through my chest.
Neither of us moves for a long moment. Then he clears his throat and pours the syrup onto his pancakes.
Later, I help him carry firewood from the covered porch. The air outside is biting, sharp enough to make my eyes water, snowflakes clinging to my lashes and melting on my cheeks. He takes the heavier load without a word, his palm skimming my lower back as we step back inside, steadying me on the threshold.
The touch is probably accidental.
It still leaves me dizzy.
By afternoon, we're sitting by the fire sorting through the finished toys, our knees bumping now and then. He's teaching me about the different woods. How maple takes paint better. How oak is strong enough for wheels.
