“That makes you, what?” His voice was rough — gravel.
“Twenty-eight. Didn’t realize authors couldn’t do basic math.”
He glanced toward the fireplace, adjusting his glasses that sat on his nose. “You’re going to need that started soon.”
“I was getting to it.”
“Allow me.”
“Right,” I said. “Because what would Christmas be without a brooding stranger taking over my firewood?”
He crouched anyway, methodical, focused — gloved hands stacking logs with the quiet precision of someone whoneededsomething to do with his hands.
And for the first time since he’d stepped through that door, I let myself look at him properly.
Older than I’d expected — maybe late forties — with lines at the corners of his eyes that hinted at too many sleepless nights and too few smiles. He wasn’t handsome in a glossy way. More like… magnetic. There was almost a wildness in his eyes.
And God help me, I think that was worse.
When he struck the match and the fire flared to life, the room filled with a warmth that had nothing to do with temperature.
He straightened, brushing ash from his palms. “That’s better,” he said simply.
I nodded, pretending the pounding in my chest was from the caffeine and not from the way he filled this tiny cabin like heowned it. I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter, trying to look equally unbothered.
IknewI was failing.
“I don’t need you to take care of me,” I huffed before I could stop myself.
He looked up then — slow, steady — and something flickered in his expression, faint but impossible to miss. “I didn’t say you did.”
“So,” I said, after another pointed silence, “you’ll call another taxi, and they’ll come pick you up. Easy fix.”
Silas glanced toward the window, where the snow was thickening fast — a soft white blur swallowing everything beyond the porch. “I don’t think anyone’s getting up that hill tonight.”
I gave a small, brittle laugh. “Oh, come on, it’s notthatbad. People drive in snow all the time.”
“They do,” he said evenly. “Just not on a single-lane road in the mountains. Not without any cell reception.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. The room suddenly felt too small, the shadows too alive. Something thatmighthave been close to a smile crossed his features.
“Did you miss the lack of phone service, Colette?”
“Cole,” I corrected him again. “So you’re saying we’re stuck.”
“I’m saying,” he replied, crouching to adjust a log, “that you should get comfortable.”
I hated how calm he sounded. Howcertain.Like this was just another inconvenience, like he hadn’t just detonated my perfectly planned, perfectly lonely weekend.
The silence after that was heavy enough to feel. I turned away, pretending to straighten the lights, to doanythingwith my hands. “Well, you should know I rarely invite strange men to share my Christmas.”
“I’d imagine not,” he murmured. “You don’t look the type.”
His voice was soft — the kind of tone that made you feel seen whether you wanted to be or not. The kind of tone that used to belong to someone else.
I swallowed hard. “You can take the couch.”
“How generous of you,” he said. “I’ll try not to intrude.”
