Something in me stirs and swells, too big and bright to name. If I’d known that he was out here alone in this cabin all along, I would’ve found his doorstep sooner. Because this warmth, this safety, this quiet heartbeat of joy…this is happiness.
“Coffee?” he rasps.
“Yes, please.”
He stretches, then rolls out of bed, the morning light spilling over the long reach of his arms, the flex of muscle under skin. He finds his robe, shrugs into it, and ties the belt around his waist.
The sight makes my pulse trip with more than basic attraction. It’s a sudden rush of tenderness from watching the way he moves through his space, sleepy and unguarded. It feels intimate in a way we haven’t yet shared. It’s real and ordinary and it might be the last time I’ll ever see him like this.
A knot forms in my throat, and I pull the blanket tighter around me and turn toward the window. Outside, the world has changed overnight. The storm is gone, the sky clear and impossibly blue. The storm is no longer keeping me here. I swallow, trying not to think about how quickly the ending of a snowstorm can create a beginning I’m not ready for.
The roads will be passable enough now for me to deliver the honey cakes and finally go back home. But every time I look at West moving around the kitchen—barefoot in his robe, hair rumpled from sleep, the soft light catching the silver flecks in his beard—I feel the ache of longing settle in my heart.
It would be so easy to stay here with him. To learn every line of his body, every secret hope and dream, to wake every morning to his scent, his warmth…
I don’t want to leave.
Somewhere between the storm and the sugar and everything that happened in between, it’s started to occur to me that maybe fate isn’t something that happenstoyou. Maybe it’s something you stumble into when you finally stop running from what you need. And right now, what I need looks a lot like the man pouring coffee a few feet away.
He hands me a mug without meeting my eyes for too long, and I can feel the distance before he has a chance to state it out loud. His movements are careful—like he’s already trying totuck what we shared into a box and store it somewhere safe, somewhere he won’t have to look at it again.
I wrap both hands around the cup and force a smile. “Guess I should get my stuff together.”
“Yeah,” he says after a beat, and the word lands flat and final. “You’ll be able to make it to the festival and get back home before nightfall.”
“Right.” My heart sinks to my toes. “I definitely want to get back home as soon as possible.”
“Oh.” He nods. “Yeah, I don’t want to keep you here longer than you have to be.”
“Obviously. I mean, who would want that?” I take a sip of coffee, but the sadness drying out my mouth makes it taste like nothing. It’s just heat, and the ache of wanting what was never really mine.
He drags his hand through his hair and stares at the floor where my fluffy pink covered toes are peeking out from beneath the blanket.
“We should get dressed and?—”
“I was thinking, maybe I could?—”
We say at the same time.
His storm gray gaze lifts to mine, and my throat closes up. “What were you thinking?”
“Umm…”
What was I even going to say? Maybe I could come back sometime? Maybe I could stay? Maybe you’d want me to?
The silence stretches, and the longer it lasts, the smaller I feel. I can’t do this again. I can’t risk being the girl who reads too much into the way a guy looks at her, only to be reminded it didn’t mean what she thought. I promised myself I’d never let anyone embarrass me like that again.
I swallow hard and shake my head. “Nothing. Never mind. It was silly.” My hands are trembling, so I set the mug down onthe bedside table before I drop it. “I should get going before the roads ice over again.”
I pull the blanket around my shoulders and stand. West turns away as I start to gather my clothes, and that almost hurts more than anything he’s said…or hasn’t. I keep myself shielded while I dress, pretending it’s about the cold and not about how I suddenly can’t bear the idea of being naked in front of him—of him deciding to look for a final time and seeing me bare when I already feel exposed enough.
I find my bag, the pack of marshmallows, the rest of my things. The frosting sits on the table beside his leather armchair. I leave it there, bright pink against the dark wood, and frame with a pink marshmallow heart. A quiet goodbye.
“You don’t have to dig your truck out of all that snow and drive me to the festival,” I say, slinging the strap of my bag over my shoulder as I stuff my feet into my sparkly boots. “I can walk back to the snowmobile. It’ll be easy to find now that it’s daylight and not a literal blizzard.”
“Emme—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in, fumbling with my gloves. “Really. I should get going if I want to make it there before the mate ceremony.”
