Red stalks back into the cabin, his jaw is set in a way that suggests he's mentally composing a lecture about city idiots who don't respect mountain weather.
"I know what you're thinking." I follow him as quickly as my numb legs will carry me. "But this wasn't—Beth didn't send me up here knowing it was going to be like this."
He stops at the doorway, snow falling from his shoulders. "Beth sent you here. Figures.”
"She was worried about you." The words come out sharper than I intend, defensive on Beth's behalf. "Her mom asked her to check on you—to make sure you were okay. Alive. Eating." I hug myself against the cold. "She knew you wouldn't open the door for her, so she asked me. And the forecast was clear when I left."
Something changes in his expression—not softening exactly, but the anger changes slightly, replaced by something else.
"So, this wasn't about delivering gifts." His voice goes flat. "This was a welfare check."
“Well, the singing telegram seemed less depressing than showing up and saying, ‘your family thinks you might be dead.’” I attempt a smile that doesn't quite land. "But I did bring gifts.”
I glance at the table where he threw the boxes earlier. “At least open mine.” Then I realize I haven’t even told him my name. “I’m Cookie, by the way.” I hold my hand out, smiling brightly.
He stares at me for a long moment, those blue eyes unreadable.
I retract my hand, my smile fading.
Okay…
“Fine, I’ll do it.” I stride to the table and grab the box with the sweater in. “I hope I got the right size.”
He watches wordlessly as I open the packaging and show him the sweater.
“Well?” I prompt, dread creeping up my throat. I wish he’d saysomething.
Anything.
"I don't need checking on." The words come out flat, final.
Oh.
I place the sweater carefully on the back of a chair and turn to him. "Everyone needs?—"
He turns away, effectively ending the conversation.
I hurry to the fire, desperately seeking heat. The warmth inside hits like heaven. Heat from the fireplace wraps around me, and I resist the urge to strip off my festive costume and curl up naked by the flames.
He tosses another log onto the flames, sending sparks leaping and dancing. The firelight plays across his features, highlighting the defined lines of his cheekbones and the thick beard that can't hide the tension in his mouth. I try not to stare at the way his flannel shirt stretches across his shoulders, the fabric pulling taut as he crouches by the fire.
Try and fail.
Jeez, so he's hot, but he's still a grump.
Beth will worry when I don't come home tonight. My phone has twelve percent battery and zero bars of service. I glance around, calculating my situation—stranded on a mountain with a man who slammed the door in my face less than an hour ago.
The cabin darkens as the storm swallows what's left of the daylight. Through the window, I can barely make out my car, which is already half-buried in snow. I've been here for less than an hour, and the world outside has turned into a white void.
I look around his space, my mind racing nearly as fast as my pulse. The cabin is larger than it appeared from outside, with exposed wooden beams and furniture that looks handmade. Everything is clean but sparse, like he's stripped away anything that isn't necessary. There are no photographs or decorations, nothing that speaks of Christmas or even happy memories. Not even a sad little tree or a single string of lights.
Who lives like this? What kind of life is just... existing?
Well, this is perfect. Justperfect. If I have to get snowed in somewhere, couldn't it have been a charming B&B with hot chocolate and reliable Wi-Fi?
I love how it’s all in one room, though. Like a studio. My gaze drifts toward the far wall, and I freeze.
There's only one bed.
