“Not yet.” She pulls off her gloves and tucks them into her coat pocket. “But I will be once I take my boots off. Floor’s chilly.”
I move to the closet, pull out a pair of thick wool socks. “Here.”
She blinks at them. “Oh—I couldn’t. Your socks?”
“Wasn’t a question,” I say, holding them out until she takes them. “Floor gets cold when the wind shifts. Better than freezing your toes.”
A soft smile tugs at her mouth before she looks down again. I feel it hit me like a sucker punch.
Damn it.
This is exactly the sort of thing I should not be collecting moments around. I take a step back before I can make it worse.
“I’ll grab some wood,” I say. “Storm means we’ll go through twice as much.”
“Oh! Perfect. While you do that, I can get started on measurements and note-taking.” She lifts her tablet like she’s about to interview the cabin. “Does the power ever go out up here?”
“Sometimes.”
“And water pressure stays steady?”
“As long as the pipes don’t freeze.”
“Backup generator?”
“In the shed.”
She beams at me like this is all very reassuring. “Great. That means I can plan for contingencies.”
I stare at her. “You’re excited about contingencies?”
“I mean, not excited-excited. But prepared-excited.” She shrugs, ponytail swinging. “I like knowing what can go wrong. Then the surprises aren’t scary.”
Her tone is light, but something about the way she says it hits closer to the bone than she intended.
I clear my throat. “Right. Well. I’ll be outside.”
She gives me a cheerful little salute. “Copy that.”
I grab my coat and step out into the cold before she can shine that grin at me again.
The wind is sharp enough to make my eyes water as I cross the yard to the woodpile. Snow is sticking fast, layering on thetarp and soaking through the cuffs of my gloves. I shove fresh logs into the crook of my arm and try not to think about the woman currently reorganizing my living room like she owns the place.
She’s a mistake I can correct as soon as the roads clear.
Except my mom’s voice rings in my head—her soft, hopeful lilt when she told me how much a “real Christmas” would mean. How this year, maybe, we could all feel connected again. How she thought Natalie might help us “bridge the edges.”
I’d almost laughed at that. But now?
Snow crunches behind me.
I stiffen. “Watch your step. It’s iced under the?—”
Natalie slides to a halt beside me, arms pinwheeling. “I’m good! I’m fine! Everything is great!”
Her boots skid again.
I drop the wood and grab her arm before she can fall straight into the drift.
