I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders and glance toward the narrow cot he pointed out earlier. "So, uh…about sleeping arrangements. You sure you're okay on the floor?"
He looks at me for a long beat, and something in his gaze makes my skin warm. "I've slept in worse places."
I raise a brow. "That's not the same ascomfortable."
His gaze dips to where the blanket's slipped off one shoulder, and I feel that look like a caress. The air feels different. Heavier. Charged. "I'll manage."
My pulse does something foolish. "You always this generous to trespassers?"
“Nope.”
I laugh, tossing him an extra pillow, which he catches it one-handed. "In that case, thank you, Thatcher."
When the lamps go out and the fire burns low, I lie on the cot, eyes half-closed, listening to the soft rhythm of his movements. The creak of floorboards as he settles onto his makeshift bed, the quiet clink of metal as he sets something aside, the sigh of someone who's spent a lot of time alone and doesn't quite know what to do with company in the house.
As I drift to sleep, I think I hear him whisper something low and half to himself. It sounded like, “Trouble.”
And I smile into the dark, because I know he’s talking about me.
Chapter 4
Thatcher
Inthemorning,thestorm still hasn't let up.
Snow's coming sideways now, hissing against the windows like radio static, burying the world in white. I've seen worse, but never with company. I feel compelled to keep her safe, warm, and comfortable.
Gia's still wrapped in my blanket, hair escaping her hat in wild curls that catch the firelight like copper wire, cheeks pink from heat and cocoa. She's half curled on the rug, sketching something in that little notebook she pulled from her bag earlier. Every few minutes she mumbles, erases with the pink nub at the pencil's end, then grins at herself.
I should be working—tuning the stove, sharpening a chisel, something that doesn't involve staring. But she keeps drawing the way she talks—all in, no hesitation, and I'm too damn curious for my own good.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
She glances up, pencil still poised. "Cataloging my finds from yesterday. One brass button and a near-death experience."
"Solid day's work."
"Right?" She props her chin on her hand, and I notice the small freckle just below her left ear. "You can't put a price on adventure."
"I can," I say. "It's usually however much it costs to fix my busted snowshoe strap."
She laughs, bright and unbothered, the sound filling the cabin like bells. "You really don't believe in the legend, do you?"
I shrug. "I believe in gravity. Storms. Metal fatigue. That's about all I know for sure."
"So, you're a realist."
"Someone has to balance out the dreamers."
"Lucky me," she says, smiling in a way that does something strange to my stomach. "That I happened to stumble across into your path then.”
She stands, stretching, and wanders toward the window. Her borrowed socks—wool and oversized—bunch at her ankles. "Wow," she breathes, and the glass fogs where her breath touches it. "It's like the world disappeared."
Snow's swirling so thick the trees are just ghosts now, dark shapes barely visible through the white.
"Does this happen a lot?" she asks.
"Every winter."
