The snow has stopped. Three feet are piled in drifts that swallow the porch steps. The sky’s low and gray, but the wind’sdropped. The generator shed is clear. But Holly’s car is buried to the windows.
I dig a path to the car and pop the hood. Same problems. Worse in daylight. An hour later, the repairs are done.
The cabin door opens. Holly steps onto the porch in the same thermals she wore yesterday, my too-big socks, and no coat.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Checking on you.”
“I’m fine. Get back inside.”
“I can help.”
“No.”
“Cole—”
“Inside. Now.”
She frowns but doesn’t move. “I’m not helpless.”
“Didn’t say you were. Said get inside before you lose heat.”
Her chin lifts. Stubborn.
The cold’s already turning her fingers red.
I close the hood and walk toward her with my tools in hand. “You want to help? Stay warm. Don’t make me haul you to the ER with frostbite.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your lips are turning blue.”
She touches them and frowns.
I reach the porch. “Holly.”
“I just wanted to?—”
Her boot slips.
Ice under the snow. She goes down hard, headed for the edge of the steps.
I drop the tools and catch her. One arm goes around her waist while the other braces on the porch rail. She slams into me, and I absorb the impact, my boots locked.
She gasps.
“Got you,” I say.
Her fists dig into my jacket. She’s shaking. Cold or adrenaline, maybe both. “I didn’t see the ice.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re okay.”
I lift her. She’s soft in all the right places.
“I’m too heavy,” she protests.
“You’re not.” She feels perfect. I carry her inside and kick the door shut behind me.
