She grins. "That sounds like a yes."
I shake my head. "That’s not what I said. If the legendistrue, someone found it already… or no one ever will.”
She curls her hands around the mug I hand her. "No one’s found ityet.”
I chuckle. “If you say so. Sit down and warm up. If the treasure’s out there, it’s not going anywhere tonight.”
For a while, the only sound is the pop of the stove and the storm clawing at the eaves. She kicks off her boots, revealing ridiculous candy-cane striped socks, and leans back in the chair like she's at her own house.
Her eyes roam the walls again, landing on the small metal sculpture above the hearth. A star made from twisted brass rail spikes, each point carefully shaped and welded.
"Did you make that?" she asks.
"Yeah."
"It's beautiful." She says it quietly, reverently, and something in her tone makes my chest tight.
I shrug, but something warm curls under my ribs anyway.
She looks at it a long moment, then at me. Steam from her cocoa rises between us, carrying the scent of chocolate and cinnamon. "You ever think maybe the treasure's still out there? Waiting for someone to find it?"
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"Because every fool who comes up here goes home empty handed… often with frostbite.”
"And yet," she says, raising a hand and wiggling her fingers, "here I am, with all my fingers and toes.”
“Only because I came along in the nick of time,” I mutter under my breath.
She ignores me. “And I have no intention of leaving empty handed.”
The wind slams against the cabin, snow spilling past the window seams in fine white powder, and I know she won't be going anywhere tonight.
I nod toward the extra blanket folded near the bed. "You can take the bed tonight."
She arches a brow. "You sure you trust me not to loot your stash of priceless scrap metal?"
"Not entirely."
She laughs, bright and unbothered, and curls up by the fire anyway. The light plays across her face, softening the angles, catching in her hair.
This woman is going to be trouble with a capital T.
Chapter 3
Gia
It'sofficial.I'vebeenabducted by a mountain man with the world's most serious jawline.
Okay,rescued. Technically. But semantics aside, I'm now sitting on a wool blanket in front of his woodstove, thawing out like a microwaved burrito while the wind howls against the cabin. The storm doesn't sound like it's quitting anytime soon, which means neither am I.
Thatcher moves around the space like it's an extension of him—methodical, efficient, all muscle and quiet focus. He doesn't say much, but when he does, it's in that low, calm tone that makes the air between us feel warmer than the fire.
I'm trying not to stare. I am failing spectacularly.
He crouches near the stove to add another log, and I watch the way his shoulders shift beneath his thermal shirt, the fabric pulling tight across his back. Forearms flexing as he adjusts the damper with practiced ease. The flicker of light catches on a smudge of soot along his cheekbone. There's something dangerously distracting about a man who smells like smoke and cedar and looks like he could build a house all by himself.
