My knees feel soft, like overcooked pasta. I lock them and lift my chin.
“Um. Hi.” My voice comes out too bright and cheerful. “I’m Holly Brooks. From the Cookies for Shut-Ins program. I have your Christmas delivery. That is if you’re Cole Hart.”
I hold up the tin, hoping I’m at the right place.
His gaze drops from it to me, then to the road, which is disappearing under the falling snow.
“You need to leave.” His voice is low, flat. Final.
The floor seems to shift beneath me. “I… what?”
“Storm’s moving in fast. The road will close in twenty minutes, if you’re lucky.”
“Oh.” I blink snow off my lashes. “Well, I’m here now, so?—”
“Turn around.”
The words land like a door slamming in my face. My ribs tighten. I’ve experienced theyou’re nice but not necessarytreatment. Thewe’ll call youthat never comes.
I swallow and force brightness back into my tone. “I drove all the way up here. The least you can do is take the cookies.”
His gaze narrows. “You drove inthis?”
“The advisory said to avoidunnecessarytravel. This felt necessary.”
“It’s not.”
Despite the cold biting my cheeks, heat floods my face. “Look, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, but I made a commitment to finish this route. So if you could…”
As I hold out the tin, a gust slams into my back. I stumble forward. His hand shoots out, catches my elbow, and steadies me. His grip is firm and warm even through my coat sleeve.
He mutters a curse, then releases me and steps back. “Inside. Now.”
“I don’t need?—”
“Your car’s not making it back down.”
I twist to look behind me. Horizontal sheets of snow erase the trees, the driveway, and the way home.
The words stick in my mouth. “It wasn’t this bad two minutes ago.”
“Ridge weather.” He moves aside, gesturing curtly. “In or freeze. Choose.”
I step over the threshold because freezing isn’t on my list of acceptable outcomes today.
The cabin smells of wood smoke and coffee. A fire crackles in a cast-iron stove at the center of the room, and the heat radiatesin waves that make my frozen skin prickle. The furniture is sparse: a worn leather chair with a reading lamp beside it, a couch covered with a slipcover, a low table scarred with ring marks, and shelves lined with labeled bins in neat block letters.
The walls are chinked logs, golden in the firelight, and the wide plank floors show the wear of boot scuffs and furniture scrapes that tell stories I’ll never know.
There are no Christmas lights or even a wreath. Forget about a tree.
Just... functional.
But also lived in. Like someone exists here, even if they don’t welcome the world inside.
He shuts the door, cutting off the wind. The pop of burning wood and my pulse are the only sounds. What have I gotten myself into?
He holds out his hand. “Keys.”
