I grin shamelessly. “I’m warming up.”
Which is technically true, but also dangerously close to admitting a deeper truth:
I feel warm around him. Too warm. Like every minute we spend together shifts something inside me I’m not prepared for.
The general store is open but bustling with storm-delayed shoppers. Calder takes the lead, grabbing things efficiently, navigating narrow aisles without hesitation.
I follow with the cart, watching him move through this environment with a blend of capability and ease. He knows the shopkeeper by name. Holds the door open for two different people. Inspects the produce like he’s judging it in a competition.
He looks good here.
Like someone who belongs.
It hits me unexpectedly that I want to know what it feels like to belong in a place like this—with him.
Which is incredibly off-limits and wildly impractical.
Focus, Natalie.
“Okay,” I say, scanning my checklist. “We need oranges, cinnamon sticks, whole cloves—mulled wine supplies.”
“For the adults,” he reminds me.
“Yes, because nothing soothes family tension like hot fruit and alcohol.”
He huffs a laugh. “True enough.”
We grab everything. Pay. Load the jeep. Drive back up the mountain.
The sky is darker now. The wind picking up again.
When we pull into the driveway, snowflakes swirl around us like glitter.
“We should get things inside quickly,” Calder says. “Storm’s worsening again.”
I hop out of the jeep. “Got it. Fast-mode activated.”
We make two trips, unloading groceries and decor bins. My hands are freezing by the second one, but I’m proud of myself for not complaining.
Then—while my arms are full of oranges and cinnamon bundles—the wind gusts hard.
The door slams shut.
I yelp. “That door has feelings.”
Calder opens it from inside and braces it with his foot. “It’s just wind.”
“No,” I say, stepping in. “It’s a vendetta.”
He takes the groceries from my arms. Our fingers brush—again—and warmth blooms under my skin like someone lit a match.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say brightly. “Totally fine. Super normal.”
He watches me a second longer than necessary, like he’s trying to decide if I’m lying.
Which I am.
