“Pretty sure that’s not going to be possible,” he says.
Heat slides through me that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the low, rough edge in his voice. I squash it down ruthlessly. Clients are not options. Grumpy mountain men are definitely not options.
“Well,” I say brightly. “We can workshop it.”
For a second, I swear his mouth wants to twitch into something resembling a smile. He strangles it before it escapes.
“The road’s already getting worse,” he says instead, looking past me again. “You shouldn’t drive back down in this. Not in that.” He nods toward the rental. “Chains or no chains.”
Triumph sparks under my breastbone. He might not want me here, but the weather just became my new favorite coworker.
“So I should stay,” I say. “For safety reasons.”
His eyes narrow like he recognizes the trap and is irritated he walked into it, but he doesn’t argue. Because he can’t. Not unless he wants the guilt of sending a stranger into a ditch to live on his conscience forever.
He steps back, opening the door wider. “Fine,” he says. “You can come in. We’ll…talk about it.”
I flash him a quick smile and step past him into the cabin.
The warmth hits immediately, a wave of woodsmoke and faint sawdust and something that smells like coffee left a little too long on the burner. It’s not fancy. A woodstove glows in the corner. A bank of windows looks out over the snow and trees. There’s a big worn couch, a sturdy coffee table, a pair of boots tossed underneath. An open doorway leads to what I hope is a kitchen.
There is also a duffel on the floor spilling flannel and thermal shirts, a stack of mail on a side table, and exactly zero Christmas decorations.
Not even a sad grocery store poinsettia.
My fingers itch.
“This is nice,” I say honestly, turning in a slow circle. “Cozy. Good bones. Great light.”
He closes the door behind us with a soft thud and leans back against it, arms crossing over his chest. The movement pulls his henley tight across muscles I do not have time to be noticing.
“Pretty sure ‘good bones’ is what people say when they’re about to insult a house,” he says.
“Not at all. ‘Good bones’ means potential.” I set my tote on the coffee table and start unpacking my clipboard, tablet, and color-coded project folder. “And you are overflowing with potential.”
I realize how that sounded right as his brows hike up.
“The cabin,” I correct quickly. “The cabin is overflowing with potential.” My throat feels a little dry. “You probably are too. In general. I’m not…evaluating your bones. I’m just?—”
He blinks.
I shut my mouth.
Silence stretches. Then, very quietly, he huffs out a laugh. It’s small and surprised and it does something absurd to my chest.
“Do you always talk like that?” he asks. “Like you’re running a one-woman press conference in your head.”
“Yes,” I say. “It’s part of my charm.”
“That what people call it?” he asks.
“Only the ones who get their deposits back.”
He shakes his head like he’s not sure what to do with me and pushes off the door. “You want coffee?” he asks. “Since you’re apparently here until the mountain decides otherwise.”
“Yes, please,” I say, trying not to sound too grateful. “Black is fine.”
He heads through the open doorway into the kitchen. I take the opportunity to look around properly, mentally overlaying decorations, seating arrangements, and buffet tables.
