“Mid-crisis brunch?” I ask.
“French toast,” he says, cracking eggs into a bowl like he’s done it a thousand times. “Comfort food.”
I hover beside him, offering a spatula. “You’re really leaning into this whole ‘snowed-in host’ thing. Should I tip?”
He shoots me a sideways look. “In this house, tips come in the form of doing dishes.”
“Bold of you to assume I can be bribed.”
“Then supervision only.”
He hands me the cinnamon. I reach for it at the same time he does. Our fingers brush. His are warm, calloused, big and strong. For a second I forget what hands are for.
“Teamwork,” I say, trying to sound casual.
He grunts, flipping the bread in the pan. “Sure.” The air fills with butter and spice.
Ranger parks himself strategically between us in case gravity does something scandalous. I grab a plate, and when he turns to set the next slice down, we bump shoulders. It’s a noticeable charge between us.
“Kitchen’s tiny,” he mutters.
“Or maybe you just take up a lot of space.”
He pauses long enough for a corner of his mouth to curve. “That’s possible.”
We eat standing up, leaning on the counter. The simple act of breakfast-for-dinner feels weirdly intimate. I lick a dropof syrup from my thumb and catch him noticing. He looks away first.
We make a nest on the living-room floor—two quilts, a couple of pillows, my thigh-highs under Beckett’s loaner sweats because yes, I absolutely changed into something warm and still a little ridiculous. He hands me a mug. We sit cross-legged facing the fire like kids at a sleepover who know better than to sleep.
“Tell me how you started,” he says.
“My store?”
He nods. The fire makes his eyes darker. He’s not interviewing me. He’s asking because he wants the piece of me that isn’t on a label.
“Okay,” I say, tucking hair behind my ear. “I was tired of everyone whispering like intimacy was a scandal and sexual enhancement items were either a prank or a secret. I wanted a friendly place with bright lights where questions were welcome and nervous laughter was mandatory. Some days I sell a lacy thing to a grandma who wants to feel pretty again. Some days it could be emergency tools for a girl that needs a new best friend. It all counts.”
He listens without interrupting, which I’m learning is his love language. Not that we’re using that word … yet.
“Your turn,” I say, nudging his ankle with my toe. “Why the cabin? Why the camera?”
He rolls the mug between his palms. “I built the cabin because I wanted proof I could. The camera because I hate waste and people keep breaking the same things the same way. Seemed easier to show them how not to.” He gives the smallest shrug. “Simple.”
“Simple is a fantasy,” I say, softer than I mean to. “But it’s a pretty one.”
We fall into easy quiet. The candle smells like cookies at a speakeasy. The fire throws a scatter of sparks up the stone chimney; one pops and I jump, then laugh at myself.
“What else do you have in those boxes?” he asks, trying for casual and landing on curious.
“Trade secret.” I smile into my mug. “But hypothetically? If Santa needed, say, special cookies? I’d have a recipe.”
He looks at the candle. “Of course you would.”
We lay back on our elbows. Ranger resettles between us like a warm ottoman, nose on my ankle, tail over Beckett’s foot. Wind presses against the windows. The room narrows to radiating heat and cinnamon spice and his steady breath close enough to count.
“You ever think the universe traps people on purpose?” I ask.
“For survival lessons?” he answers, showing a tiny smile.
