What's she afraid of?
"Do you have any coffee?" She's already scanning the kitchen, arms wrapped around herself against the cold.
I nod toward the counter. "There's a tin. To the left of the stove."
She finds the percolator and runs her fingers over the dented metal like she's assessing its history. The woman notices things—details most people miss. "Thank God. I was about to start chewing on furniture for caffeine."
My eyebrows lift before I can stop them. "Please don't. They took time to make."
Her head whips around, her eyes widening as she takes in the table, the chairs, the shelves. She trails her fingers along the table's edge, and I track the movement without meaning to. "Youmadethis?"
I nod.
"It's beautiful. All of it."
The words hit differently coming from her, because I know she’s not just being polite. She’s genuine, like she sees what I put into each piece—the hours of sanding, the careful joinery, the need to create something that lasts. I love spending time in my tiny workshop out back; it keeps me sane.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, uncomfortable with the attention. Bear thumps his tail against my ankle, the traitor already halfway in love with her.
The percolator bubbles. She pours two mugs and crosses to me, careful not to let our fingers touch when she hands one over. Her deliberate distance tells me everything—she's as aware of the attraction between us as I am.
"Thanks."
She takes a sip and winces. "Damn. That could strip paint."
One corner of my mouth moves before I can stop it. "You wanted energy."
"Not rocket fuel." She blows across the surface, and I watch steam curl around her face. "I bake when I'm nervous. Do you have flour? Sugar? Anything I can throw in a bowl?"
My eyes narrow. "Nervous about what?"
She gestures vaguely. "Take your pick. Stranded with a stranger who hates me, my car buried in snow, the lack of cell service."
There's more she's not saying. She won't quite meet my eyes, her fingers tapping against the mug. But I don't push it.
“I don’t hate you,” I mutter, avoiding her gaze.
Hate is such a strong word.
I eye the storm still battering the windows. The snow's building against the glass in drifts. It’s clear we’re not getting out tomorrow either. "The cabinets above the sink have what you need; use what you want. Just… don't make a mess."
"I won’t. Scout's honor." She salutes, and the gesture brings back memories I really don’t want to resurface.
I turn away, leaving her to it.
She rummages through the cabinets like she's on a mission, pulling out jars with the kind of focus I usually reserve for hunting. Everything's labeled in here, and organized with military precision. Old habits die hard and all that.
"Red." She holds up the vanilla paste like she's found gold. "You have vanilla paste! The good stuff, too!"
I shrug. "I found it at the supply store last month."
What I don't say is, I bought it because Beth used to talk about it, saying real bakers always used paste, not extract. Thought maybe if I have the right ingredients, I could?—
Fuck it, it doesn't matter. I don’t bake anymore.
"I'll bring in more wood," I say, already pulling on my gloves. "The storm's picking up; I might not get another chance."
She nods, already lost in flour.
