Sheshouldn'tbehere.
That's my first thought as I open the cabin door and cold air rushes in, sharp and biting enough to make my lungs contract. Snow clings to her dark coat and hair. She looks determined, bright-eyed, and very much out of place at the end of my long, narrow drive.
She’s a city girl, I’m sure of it.
I don't need to ask to know.
"Hello,” she says, raising her voice over the wind that's picked up considerably in the last hour.
I glance past her at the car parked crooked near the trees. Small. Low to the ground. Already half-buried in fresh powder.Not built for this road once the snow really starts coming down. Which it already has.
"You're lost," I say.
She shakes her head, snowflakes flying loose from her dark hair. "No. I'm right where I meant to be. That is, if you’re Rowan Hale.”
That gets my attention.
I study her more closely. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, her glasses slightly fogged at the edges. There's something stubborn in the set of her jaw, something that tells me she didn't end up here by accident.
"I'm Merry," she adds, like that explains anything. "I own a Christmas shop in Knoxville. I'm here about the wreaths."
Of course she is.
I let my gaze flick back to the sky. The clouds have dropped low and heavy, filled with snow and ready to wreak havoc on my world. The wind gusts again, rattling the porch rail, and I swear under my breath.
"You drove up here in a storm?”
She smiles, undeterred, and there's something about the way she stands her ground—feet planted, shoulders back despite the cold—that makes my chest tighten. "I figured I could beat it."
"You didn't."
Her confidence wavers, just a touch, as another gust sends snow swirling around her boots in miniature cyclones. She glances back toward the road, now already half-lost beneath fresh powder, the tire tracks from her car filling in fast. Then she returns her gaze to me, and I see the moment she realizes what I already know.
She's not getting back down that mountain tonight.
"I just need a few minutes," she says, trying to sound reasonable. "I can pay today, in cash, and I'll be quick."
She's trying to bargain with the weather. It would be charming if it weren't so dangerous.
I cross my arms over my chest. "Even if you turned around now, you’d end up in a ditch before you make it a quarter mile."
Her lips part, then press together. I watch her process this, see the moment the reality settles in. "Okay," she says carefully. "So… what do you suggest?"
The wind answers before I can.
Snow starts coming down harder, thicker, erasing the road behind her in fast-moving sheets. The temperature is dropping fast too. I can feel it in the way the air bites at my exposed skin. I watch it happen and make a decision I don't like but can’t argue with.
"Get inside," I say, stepping back and pulling the door wider.
Relief flashes across her face, quick and unguarded. She doesn't waste time arguing, which tells me she's smarter than her choice to drive up here suggests.
She hurries past me, bringing a gust of cold air and snowflakes with her. I shut the door behind her, the sound solid and final, sealing us in together as the storm howls louder outside.
She takes a few steps in, looking around with open curiosity. The cabin is small but well-kept—one main room with a kitchen area, a woodstove crackling in the corner, and my workbench covered in pine boughs and half-finished wreaths. The ceiling beams are low and dark with age, and the windows are already frosting at the corners.
"Wow," she says softly, her breath still coming quick from the cold. "It smells like Christmas in here."
"Sit," I tell her, nodding toward the chair by the stove.
