"Noted." I head for the coat rack by the door. "The rolls smell good."
A small smile curves her lips. "Thanks. Maybe I'll let you have one if you're nice."
"I'm never nice," I say, the words coming out rougher than intended. "But I am fair."
"I'll take fair over nice any day." She holds my gaze and something in her words reroutes blood from my brain.
Outside, the cold air clears my head as I trudge through accumulating snow to the woodshed. The physical exertion of loading my arms with split logs helps ground me, distracting from thoughts of Judith's smile and the complications her ex brings to our already complex situation.
By the time I return to the porch, my arms laden with firewood, she's waiting as promised. She's added a thick cardigan over her hoodie, and her hands are covered in knit gloves that look inadequate for the bitter cold. Still, she takes each log from me without complaint, stacking them neatly against the wall.
"It's really coming down," she says, breath clouding in the frigid air. "How long do these storms usually last?"
"This system could keep us snowed in for days." I dump the load of wood, already turning to get more. "The plow won't make it up the mountain road until it passes."
She pauses in her stacking. "Days? But my work?—"
"Should have thought of that before agreeing to mountain life." I don't soften the reality for her. "This isn't the city with its plowed roads and reliable services."
Instead of wilting, she straightens her spine. "I'll manage. I always do."
Something about the quiet determination in her voice catches at me. This isn't a woman accustomed to having things easy, despite the polished exterior.
Three more trips to the woodshed, and we've stockpiled enough wood to last through the worst of the storm. By the final load, Judith's cheeks are flushed with cold, her curls dusted with snowflakes that melt into droplets clinging to the dark strands.
"Inside," I say, holding the door open for her. "You're freezing."
"I'm fine." But her teeth chatter slightly as she passes me.
The warmth of the cabin envelops us, along with the mouthwatering scent of baked cinnamon and sugar. The timer on the oven beeps insistently.
"Perfect timing." Judith hurries to rescue her creation, pulling out a tray of golden-brown rolls that make my stomach growl audibly.
She glances over her shoulder, a knowing smile playing at her lips. "Hungry, mountain man?"
"Might be." I remove my snow-dusted coat, hanging it by the door.
She transfers the rolls to a cooling rack with practiced ease. "Give them five minutes. More coffee?"
I nod, watching as she moves around my kitchen like she belongs there. It's been a long time since anyone cooked in this space besides me. Not since Sofia left three years ago, claiming the isolation was driving her mad. She'd lasted six months. I wonder idly how long Judith will maintain her composure before the mountain gets to her too.
"You're staring," she says without turning around.
"Just wondering how a public relations executive learned to bake like a professional."
"Therapy." She hands me a fresh mug of coffee, our fingers brushing. "After my mother died, I had trouble sleeping. The therapist suggested finding something repetitive and productive to do at night. Baking worked."
Again, the glimpse beneath her polished surface intrigues me. "What does your father think of this arrangement?"
Pain flashes across her features before she can mask it. "He died two years ago. Heart attack."
"I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate.
"Thanks." She busies herself with the rolls, spreading cream cheese frosting with careful precision. "What about your parents? You mentioned your father passed."
"Car accident ten years ago. My mother left when I was twelve. Haven't heard from her since."
Judith pauses, looking up at me with unexpected compassion. "That must have been hard."
