"Where should I?"
I nod toward the bathroom. "Door locks."
While she changes, I busy myself with coffee and try not to think about the fact that there's a half-naked woman in my bathroom. A sweet, chatty, completely innocent woman who probably has no idea what kind of man she's stuck with.
When she emerges, my mouth goes dry.
My flannel shirt hangs loose on her frame, but it can't hide her beautiful curves. The thermal underwear clings to her legs, and her hair is loose now, falling in dark waves past her shoulders.She looks soft and rumpled and like she belongs in my cabin, which is a dangerous thought.
"Better?" I ask, handing her a mug of coffee.
"Much, thank you." She wraps her hands around the mug and takes a sip, closing her eyes with appreciation. "Oh, this is really good. What kind of coffee is this?"
"Just coffee."
"Well, it's perfect." She settles onto my couch like she owns the place, tucking her legs under her. "So, Colt Murphy. What do you do up here all by yourself?"
The simple question hits harder than it should. What do I do? Try to forget. Try to sleep without nightmares. Try to convince myself I deserve to be alive when better men aren't.
"I like the quiet," I say instead, taking the chair across from her.
"I can see why. It's so peaceful here." She looks around again, and I see her taking inventory. The lack of personal touches. The absence of any Christmas decorations. The guitar in the corner that I haven't touched in months.
"Do you play?" she asks, nodding toward it.
"Not anymore."
"That's a shame. Music makes everything better, don't you think?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "I sing sometimes when I'm baking. Lottie says it makes the cookies taste happier."
Despite myself, I almost smile. "Cookies can't taste happy."
"You clearly haven't tried my cookies." She jumps up and retrieves the bakery bag from by the door. "These are from your mother, by the way," I say, opening the bag. "Two dozen Christmas cookies, assorted. The order said she wanted to make sure you had something homemade for the holidays since she couldn't be here."
She opens the bag and the smell of sugar and spice fills my cabin. She's arranged the cookies in neat rows. They’resnowflakes and stars and candy canes, all decorated with careful detail.
"She shouldn't have," I say finally.
"She loves you," she says gently. "The order had a note. She said she knows you like your space, but she didn't want you to be completely alone for Christmas."
The casual way she mentions my mother makes my chest tight. Mom's been trying to reach out for months—phone calls I don't answer, letters I don't open, and now cookies delivered by the sweetest woman I've ever seen.
"You don't know anything about me," I say, more sharply than I intend.
"I know you let a stranger into your cabin during a blizzard," she replies without missing a beat. "I know you gave me dry clothes and good coffee. I know you're worried about me getting hypothermic, which means you're kind. And I know you used to play music but stopped for some reason, which makes me sad because music shouldn't be given up lightly."
She says all of this while arranging cookies on a plate like she's setting up for a tea party.
"I'm not kind," I tell her.
"Well, that's where you're wrong." She holds out the plate. "Cookie?"
I take one—a snowflake covered in white icing—and bite into it. The flavor explodes across my tongue, rich and buttery with hints of vanilla and almond. It's been years since I've had anything homemade.
"Good?" she asks, watching my face.
"Yeah. Good."
Her smile beams brighter than any Christmas lights. "I knew you'd like them. I added extra vanilla to the snowflakes because they looked like they needed something special."
