Nia hesitated. “That’s not necessary.”
“Didn’t say it was.” Soren’s gaze held hers, steady and warm. “But I’m not leaving you to walk out there in those heels.”
Nia’s mouth opened—ready to argue, to refuse—but the wind outside chose that moment to roar against the windows, rattling the wreaths again.
Her shoulders lowered a fraction. “Fine,” she said quietly. “If it’s no trouble.”
Soren smiled, slow and satisfied. “For you, Doc? None at all.”
She caught her jacket from the chair and gestured toward the door. “Let’s get you out of here before the mountain decides to swallow us whole.”
Nia followed, coat clutched around her, eyes flashing with the kind of irritation that was really self-defense. Soren didn’t mind. She’d seen that look before—the one people wore right before they let something dangerous happen.
As the door opened and cold air swept in, Nia’s perfume drifted past Soren—clean, expensive, edged with something floral. It hit her square in the chest.
“Truck’s just around the corner,” Soren said, voice rougher than she intended.
Nia didn’t answer, just lifted her chin and stepped out into the snow.
3
NIA
The truck’s heater hummed, filling the cab with a low, steady warmth. Outside, snow came down in thick sheets, blurring the world into soft white edges. Every few seconds the wipers swept across the windshield with a rhythmic scrape, clearing just enough space to see the glow of streetlights and the black ribbon of road ahead.
Nia sat rigid in the passenger seat, hands folded neatly over her purse like she was holding on to something delicate. Her pulse hadn’t slowed since the moment she’d agreed to get into the truck.
Soren’s truck.
The interior smelled like cedar, leather, and faint engine oil—clean and earthy and nothing like the sterile world Nia lived in. The dashboard was littered with practical things: a pair of gloves, a thermos, a folded flannel jacket. And there was Soren, one hand on the wheel, one arm draped easily over the back of the seat, looking perfectly at home as if she’d been born out of the mountain itself.
Nia’s usual type didn’t look like this.
Her wife—ex-wife—had worn perfume that cost more than Soren’s truck payment, favored pearls and precise sentences. They’d matched on paper, in posture, in ambition. Everything clean, polished, efficient.
And here she was—sitting beside a woman with sawdust on her jacket and a tattoo peeking above her collar, whose grin had disarmed her faster than any scalpel slip could.
She hated that her heart kept stuttering every time Soren shifted gears.
“This road’s tricky,” Soren said, eyes on the snow. Her voice was low, a pleasant rumble that seemed to fill the cab. “But she handles fine.”
Nia nodded, pretending composure. “I’m sure.”
“Hotel’s on the ridge, right? About fifteen minutes if we don’t end up in a snowdrift.”
“I can walk the rest if the road gets bad.”
Soren shot her a look, amused. “In those shoes? Not a chance, Doc.”
The nickname sent another pulse of heat through Nia, unwelcome and immediate. She turned her face toward the window to hide it, pretending to watch the falling snow. Her reflection in the glass looked too pale, too tense, her lipstick slightly smudged from the whiskey.
What are you doing, Nia?
This wasn’t her. She didn’t sit in strangers’ trucks. She didn’t let herself be flustered by women who smelled like smoke and winter and trouble. She didn’t…wantlike this.
“You quiet back there,” Soren said softly, glancing at her again. “You okay?”
Nia managed a faint smile. “I’m fine.”
