Merry, the sweater read.
I cleared my throat and dragged my gaze to the cabin's open floor plan. "Nope. Did it all myself."
Her eyebrows shot up. "You did this?"
I frowned. "That surprise you?"
"Yeah," she said slowly, her lips twitching. "It's just—I don't exactly have a lot of experience with guys like you. You don't strike me as the type to care about…throw pillows and Christmas wreaths."
"Guys like me?" I grabbed her overnight bag from where she'd left it by the door.
"You know. Flannel. Trucks. Probably have an axe somewhere."
"Two axes, actually."
She laughed—soft and unexpected. The sound did something dangerous to my chest.
I carried her bag to the leather armchair by the fireplace, setting it down. She was watching me with curious eyes, probably wondering why I was playing bellhop when she was just here for a couple of hours while I fixed her truck.
The truth was, I didn't know either. It just felt wrong to leave her bag sitting by the door like she wasn't welcome.
"Bathroom's down that hall if you need it," I said, gesturing to the left. "Kitchen's obviously right there. Make yourself comfortable while I work on the truck."
She moved toward the fireplace, studying the photos on the mantle. Her fingers hovered over the frame holding a picture of me and my parents from five Christmases ago.
"Your folks?" she asked.
"Yeah. They're in Florida now. Retired."
"They know you're up here alone?"
"They know." I moved to the fireplace, started arranging kindling. I needed something to do with my hands. "They worry, but they get it."
"Get what?"
"That I needed space. Quiet. A place to figure out what I actually wanted instead of what everyone expected."
She was silent while I built the fire, and I could feel her watching me. When I struck the match and the kindling caught, orange light flickered across her face. She was still shivering in that thin cardigan despite the sweater underneath.
The fire took hold, flames climbing. I stood, brushing my hands on my jeans. "That'll warm things up. I should get started on the truck before it gets too dark?—"
"Wait." She stepped closer, and I caught a hint of something sweet—vanilla, maybe. "Have you eaten?"
I hadn't. I'd been heading into town for supplies when I got stuck behind her disaster of a food truck.
"I'm fine,” I said.
"That's not what I asked."
Her eyes were direct, challenging. I liked that she didn't back down.
"No," I admitted. "I haven't eaten."
"Then let me make you lunch. As a thank-you."
"You don't need to?—"
"I want to." She crossed her arms, which only emphasized the curves her sweater was doing a terrible job of hiding. "Besides, I need to practice. I'm supposed to be running a food truck tomorrow, and I haven't cooked anything in…" She paused, thinking. "Actually, I can't remember the last time I cooked."
