By the time I haul my suitcase and supply bins up to the cabin and kick the door closed behind me, the snow outside is falling harder.
“Storm’s picking up,” Calder says, watching the swirling white through the window. His voice is quieter now, thoughtful.“Once it settles in, we’re not getting off this mountain for a while.”
I drop my tote beside the couch and straighten, a strange little thrill sparking along my spine.
Trapped in a cabin with my grumpy lumberjack client, a looming holiday, and an entire family’s expectations.
No pressure.
“Good thing we’ve got work to do,” I say, meeting his eyes. “Let’s make this Christmas worth being snowed in for.”
He holds my gaze for a beat longer than strictly necessary.
“Careful, Natalie,” he says slowly. “If you say things like that, my mom’s going to think you’re a miracle worker.”
I smile, feeling something shift between us, small and invisible and important.
“Maybe I am,” I say lightly. “Guess we’ll find out.”
TWO
CALDER
I knew this was a bad idea the moment I opened the door.
Not hiring her—my mom hired her without asking me—but letting her stay. Letting her walk into my space with her boots tracking snow and her eyes tracking everything else. Letting someone this…bright into a room I’ve worked very hard to keep dim.
Now she’s here, bouncing between the entryway and the living room like she’s already memorizing every square inch. She’s unpacked a clipboard, three different pens, something that looks like a color wheel, and a tablet covered in tabs. It’s like watching a cheery little storm rearrange my life.
A pretty storm.
Which is even worse.
I watch her wrestle one of the supply bins toward the wall, talking to it under her breath about “optimal flow for family foot traffic.” I don’t know what that means, but I’ve already learned that Natalie says a lot of things I don’t understand…and says them like everyone probably agrees.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, trying to decide if I should offer to help or get out of my own way. The problem is that both options feel like traps.
“You okay over there?” I ask. It comes out gruffer than I mean it to.
She pops upright, cheeks pink from the cold and the effort. “Oh! Yes. Just figuring out where the ornament station will go. Or the cocoa bar. I haven’t decided yet.”
I blink. “Cocoa bar?”
She brightens like she’s been waiting for me to ask. “A self-serve setup. Marshmallows, peppermint sticks, cinnamon, flavored syrups, maybe shaped sprinkles. People love it.”
My kitchen barely holds two adults and a bag of groceries. The thought of marshmallow bowls being part of its daily reality nearly unmoors me.
“You know we only have one counter,” I say.
“That’s fine,” she says. “I’ll make it work.”
I have no doubt she will. That’s the concerning part.
Another gust of wind rattles the windows. Snow is falling harder now, thick and steady. If the storm settles the way they predicted, she’s stranded here for the night. Maybe longer.
I should be worried about having a stranger in my house. Instead, I’m worried about how comfortable she looks unpacking into it.
“You cold?” I ask.
