Soren only shrugged, easy smile tugging one side of her mouth. “What else am I gonna do? Let Santa handle it?”
The bartender laughed, topping off a glass. “You’re too good for this town.”
“Nah. I just like being useful.”
Someone switched the music to a low, bluesy version ofHave Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. The lights over the bar flickered gold against polished bottles. Outside, snow streaked sideways past the windows, thickening fast.
Soren felt that familiar contentment settle deep in her chest—the satisfaction of warmth earned, the simple pleasure of a full room and work well done. She leaned one hip against the bar, cider in hand, and watched the storm swirl through the glass.
“Forecast says we’ll be buried by morning,” Maggie said.
“Good thing you’ve got me on retainer,” Soren replied. “When your pipes freeze, I’ll bring a wrench and a shovel.”
Maggie smirked. “You ever stop fixing things long enough to just sit still?”
Soren tipped her head back, considering. “Not really my nature.”
The door creaked open again, letting in another breath of cold. Everyone turned briefly toward the swirl of white. Soren didn’t—she was used to the wind bringing strangers in. But she caught the movement in the mirror behind the bar: a figure shaking off snow, dark hair gleaming under the lights, posture straight enough to make everyone else in the room look like they’d slouched too far.
Soren’s mouth curved around the rim of her glass. Whoever that was, she sure didn’t belong in a mountain bar.
“Looks like the storm blew in something fancy,” Maggie murmured.
Soren kept her voice low, amused. “Guess I better stay and make sure she doesn’t break anything.”
She turned fully then, ready to offer her easy grin. The woman met her eyes—sharp green, cool as winter glass—and something inside Soren shifted, like the snap of kindling catching fire.
The stranger stepped farther inside, the door sighing closed behind her. Snowflakes glittered on the shoulders of her coat before melting into damp crescents. She tugged off soft leather gloves, revealing long, delicate fingers, and pushed back the hood.
Soren had fixed a thousand broken things in this town—pipes, shingles, fences—but nothing had ever stolen her breath the way that woman did in that moment.
Dark hair, glossy and straight, slid past her jaw to brush the collar of her camel-colored coat. Her green eyes swept the room once, sharp and assessing, like she was taking inventory of every flaw. Her mouth, a precise curve of rose against pale skin, pressed tight when she saw how many people were watching her.
She looked like she’d stepped out of a glass building in some city far away—meant for conferences, not flannel. But there she was, heels clicking faintly on the worn wooden floor ofThe Timberline Taproom, carrying an invisible frost that made Soren’s pulse jump.
Maggie murmured, “You think she’s lost?”
Soren grinned, low and lazy. “Nah. She looks like she knows exactly where she’s going. Just doesn’t want to be there.”
The woman paused near the bar and unbuttoned her coat, movement precise, almost wary. Beneath it: a fitted black turtleneck, slim trousers, a gold watch that probably cost more than Soren’s truck. She perched on a stool near the fire, posture perfect, chin lifted. The warmth didn’t seem to touch her.
Soren felt something stir—a mix of curiosity and something more dangerous. She’d always liked puzzles.
Sliding from her spot, she caught Maggie’s eye. “Put her first drink on me,” she said quietly.
Maggie arched a brow. “Working overtime, Stevenson?”
Soren winked. “Community service.”
She crossed the floor, cider still in hand, boots thudding lightly on the floorboards. When she reached the stranger’s stool, she leaned against the bar, careful not to crowd her. “Evenin’. You look like you could use something strong.”
The woman’s head turned, eyes flashing up at her. Up close they were extraordinary—green like new leaves but edged with fatigue. “Is that your way of asking what I’m drinking?” Her voice was smooth, precise, the kind of tone that had probably silenced entire conference rooms.
“Sure,” Soren said easily. “Or my way of saying Maggie pours a mean whiskey. Spiced cider too, if you’re feeling festive.”
“I’m not feeling festive.” The words came out clipped, brittle. She looked away again, toward the fire.
Soren didn’t take it personally. Frost was still just water, given time. “Fair enough,” she said lightly. “Still, the cider’s good enough to make a believer outta most folks.”
