I can see her mentally counting to ten, the way she does when she thinks I’m being particularly stubborn about something.
“You can’t hide in the woods forever, Nate.” She sighs but drops the subject. It’s one of the things I appreciate most about Amelia—she knows when to push and when to back off.
The rest of the morning passes in comfortable silence, broken only by the crunch of our boots in the snow and the occasional scratch of her pen on the clipboard. By early afternoon, my fingers are numb despite my gloves, and even Amelia’s endless energy seems to be waning.
“I’m heading into town for supplies,” I tell her as we pack up. “Need anything?”
She shakes her head, already walking toward her truck. “I’m good. See you tomorrow.”
I wave her off and head to my own vehicle, grateful for the blast of warm air that hits me as I start the engine. The drive into town is peaceful, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the snow-covered landscape. I’m mentally cataloging what I need—new drill bits, some sandpaper for my latest woodworking project—when I spot a familiar figure ahead.
Caspian is struggling with what looks like several heavy bags of coffee beans, his cheeks flushed from the cold. Before I can think better of it, I’m pulling over.
“Need a hand?” I call out, already climbing down from my truck.
He turns, and that smile—the one that seems to light up his whole face—breaks across his features. “My hero! These things weigh a ton.”
As I grab some of the bags, our fingers brush, and even through my gloves, I feel a jolt of awareness that makes my breath catch. Up close, I notice snowflakes caught in his dark lashes and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.
“Special Blend’s just around the corner,” he says, falling into step beside me. “I could make you a coffee as thanks. We’re only running at basic capacity right now, still getting everything set up, but I make a mean latte. What do you say?”
“That’s not what I heard,” I reply. “Word is you’re already winning over the town with your winter spice latte. Something about it being like a warm hug in the forest?”
Caspian’s laugh rings out clear in the cold air. “Oh god, that’s Olivia, isn’t it? She’s been in every morning this week, and I’m not even officially open.” He glances up at me through those snow-dusted lashes. “You’ll have to try it yourself and let me know if she’s right.”
The invitation in his voice is unmistakable, and I find myself nodding before I can overthink it. “I suppose I could spare a few minutes.”
The coffee shop is warm and inviting, even with boxes still scattered around and ladders propped against half-painted walls. Caspian moves behind the counter with surprising grace, his movements fluid and practiced as he starts the espresso machine.
“So,” he says, measuring out beans, “what brings a forest product technician into town on this chilly afternoon? Besides rescuing helpless baristas, of course.”
“Hardware store run,” I reply, watching his hands work. They’re elegant hands, I notice, despite the occasional coffee stain. “Need some new drill bits for my next piece.”
“Oh? Another wooden bowl like those gorgeous ones you showed me the other day?” He glances up, catching me staring at his hands. I quickly look away, but not before I see the slight curve of his lips. “I still can’t believe you made those. They looked like they belonged in an art gallery.”
The espresso machine hisses and steams, filling the air with a rich coffee scent mixed with something spicier—cinnamon maybe, and something else I can’t quite place. It’s oddly intimate, standing in his half-finished shop, watching him craft something just for me.
“Here,” he says finally, sliding a mug across the counter. “Tell me what you think.”
I take a sip. Damn if Amelia wasn’t right. It’s like drinking winter itself, but warmer, softer. The spices bloom on my tongue, complex but perfectly balanced. “This is…really good,” I admit.
His whole face lights up. “Yeah? I’ve been tweaking the recipe for weeks. My mom used to make something similar, but—” He stops abruptly, something flickering across his face before his bright smile returns, just slightly dimmed.
The silence hangs between us for a moment, heavy with unspoken grief. I recognize that look—I’ve seen it in the mirror often enough. Part of me wants to reach across the counter and offer comfort, but I hold back, unsure if my touch would be welcome.
“It’s perfect,” I say instead, taking another sip. “Your mom would be proud.”
His eyes meet mine, surprised and grateful. “Thanks,” he says softly. Then, with visible effort, he brightens. “So, about these wooden pieces of yours… Any chance I could commission something for the shop? Maybe some custom serving trays or display stands?” He gives me legit puppy eyes. “I really need a bookcase for the bookstore corner over there.” He points to the other side of the shop.
“I don’t really do commissions,” I start to say, my usual response ready on my tongue. But something in his eager expression makes me pause. “Though I suppose we could talk about it.”
“Really?” He leans across the counter, close enough that I can smell vanilla and coffee on his clothes. “Because I have this vision for it, and what you do is so beautiful and organic, and I’d love to showcase the craft of someone local.”
His enthusiasm is infectious, and I’m drawn into the conversation, suggesting different woods that might work, discussing grain patterns and finishes. Before I know it, an hour has passed, and the hardware store will close soon.
“I should go,” I say reluctantly, setting down my empty mug. “Those drill bits won’t buy themselves.”
“Right, of course.” Is it my imagination, or does he look disappointed? “Thanks again for the help with the beans.”
