And truth is, I’m starving.
My thumbs move before my brain catches up.
Me: That actually sounds amazing. I’ll head over.
His response is immediate.
Tony: Drive careful. Roads are slick.
Something warm threads through my chest at that. Unexpected but welcome.
By the time I reach the cabin, snow is falling faster—thick flakes that stick to my windshield and blur the trees. Light glows from the windows of the place, soft and golden, like a hearth in a storybook.
Jesus, the smell has my mouth watering as soon as I walk through the door. Chili, simmering and rich, thick with spices, tomato, and something smoky that makes my stomach growl loud enough he hears it.
He grins, stepping aside. “Get in here before you freeze to death.”
“I’m fine,” I lie automatically, brushing snow from my coat.
He gives me that look—the one that feels like he’s reading my pulse through my eyes. “Sure you are.”
The warmth inside hits me like a physical touch. A pot bubbles on the stove. The air hums with quiet music—low, slow blues that vibrate through the room more than play in it. Suddenly my cabin feels like a dream becoming a reality.
“Sit,” he orders, pointing to the stool at the counter. “You look wrung out.”
“I just didn’t sleep much.”
His jaw tics, barely perceptible unless you’re watching him the way I do. Like someone who’s grateful for distractions.
“Eat first,” he instructs. “Then we talk about sleep.”
It should irritate me—any hint of someone deciding things for me. My ex-husband was good at that. Too good. But with Tony it doesn’t feel like control. It feels like care. Like someone stepping in because I’m too tired to step in for myself.
He serves me a steaming bowl with cheddar cheese on top, and when I take the first bite, a sound slips out of me that is embarrassingly close to a moan.
“Good?” he asks.
“Unfairly good.”
He smirks. “Thought you could use a meal made by someone who knows their way around a kitchen.”
It’s simple. Teasing. And god help me, it works.
We talk, light touches of conversation, nothing deep. My body slowly warms. The ache in my bones eases. And for a little while, I feel human again. But when I stand to leave, snow slams against the window in sheets.
“Damn,” I whisper. “It wasn’t this bad earlier.”
Tony checks out the door. “It’s coming down fast. You should stay until it slows.”
“I can’t impose like that.”
“You’d be safer staying here. And it is your house.”
I shake my head. “I’ll be fine.”
He arches a brow. “Holley. You’re exhausted. And this storm’s gonna get worse before it gets better.”
He’s right, but stubbornness is muscle memory for me.
