"Then you'll have to stay until I'm done," I say. “It’ll be a day or two.”
Her smile spreads slow and genuine. "Deal. But I have to get in touch with my assistant. There’s no cell service up here?”
“Afraid not.”
“Wi-fi?” she asks hopefully.
“Nope.”
“There’s no way to reach the outside world at all?” she asks, chewing her bottom lip.
My mouth twitches into a half-smile. “There’s a satellite phone for emergencies, but the calls are expensive.”
She nods. “I’ll keep the call very brief.”
I reach into the counter drawer for the phone and hand it to her. Our gazes hold a second too long.
The fire pops. The storm presses closer. Outside, the wind picks up even more, howling now like something alive.
I turn back to my work before I do something reckless.
Because once this snow clears, she'll leave.
She has a life down the mountain. A business. Probably people waiting for her.
And the fact that I already don't like that idea is a problem I'm not ready to face yet.
Chapter 3
Merry
Rowan'scabingrowsquieteras the storm settles in.
The wind still howls outside, rattling the windows now and then with enough force to make the glass shudder in its frame, but inside the fire has found its rhythm. The heat seeps into my bones, thawing fingers that had gone numb long before I knocked on his door. I cradle the mug in my hands and breathe in the peppermint scent.
I didn't realize how tense I was until I start to relax.
My shoulders drop. My jaw unclenches. The panic that had been quietly building during that last mile of driving—when I couldn't see the road, couldn't see anything but white—finally ebbs away.
Rowan stands at the workbench with his back to me, shoulders broad beneath his flannel as he works. Pine boughs cover the table in thick, fragrant piles, and his hands move with steady confidence—measuring, twisting, trimming with small, precise snips of his shears. There's something calming about watching someone who knows exactly what they're doing… someone who doesn't second-guess or hesitate.
Something attractive too, if I'm being honest.Hotter than Mercury.
He's tall, broad in a way that comes from actual work rather than a gym. His hair is dark, a little too long, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. His flannel is worn soft at the elbows, and his jeans are faded in a way that says comfort, not fashion. There's a quiet strength to him, a solidness that makes me feel safe.
I shift in the chair and tuck my feet closer to the stove, letting the warmth seep through my socks. "So," I say lightly, breaking the quiet, "how long have you been making wreaths?"
He doesn't turn around. "A while."
I smile to myself. "That's a very mountain-man answer."
One corner of his mouth lifts, just barely. I catch it in profile. "Long enough."
I sip my tea and watch him work. Up close, the wreaths are even more beautiful than the photos online. Thick and full, not overly styled or fussed over. Natural, but intentional. Every branch looks like it belongs exactly where it is, like he's not arranging them so much as discovering their proper place.
"You forage all of this yourself?" I ask.
"Yes."
