I stare at the ceiling, listening to the wind and the quiet creaks of the old building.
Outside, snow continues to fall, covering Whitetail Falls in a blanket of white. Inside, a stranger sleeps in my bed, and I find I don't mind at all.
Eventually, I drift off, still wearing my jeans and thermal shirt, ready to wake if she needs anything in the night.
My last thought before sleep claims me is that her name suits her. Soft but strong, like something that could grow in unexpected places.
Chapter 3 – Lori
I wake to unfamiliar light streaming through blinds I don't recognize.
For a disorienting moment, I can't remember where I am. The bed beneath me is firm, the sheets smell of detergent and something woodsy, and the room around me is sparse but tidy.
Then it all comes rushing back—the wedding, Richard's voice in the hallway, my escape, andArthur.
Arthur Gray. The firefighter with the quiet voice and capable hands who gave me shelter when I had nowhere else to go.
I sit up slowly, my body aching in ways I hadn't noticed yesterday. Emotional exhaustion has a physical toll, and I feel it in every muscle. His sweatshirt slides off one shoulder as I push back the covers.
Through the open door, I hear quiet movement and smell coffee brewing.
I pad barefoot to the bathroom, wincing at my reflection. My hair is a tangled mess, my eyes puffy and a little red, my face bare of makeup. Richard always preferred me "put together," even first thing in the morning. I'd grown accustomed to waking early to apply concealer and mascara before he saw me.
After splashing cold water on my face and finger-combing my hair into something less chaotic, I make my way toward the kitchen. I pause in the doorway, watching Arthur move around the small space.
He's already dressed, his back to me as he flips something in a pan on the stove.
"Morning," I say softly, not wanting to startle him.
He turns, spatula in hand, and something in his expression makes my cheeks warm. It's not pity or judgment, just a quiet assessment and what might be approval.
"Morning," he replies. "Coffee's ready if you want some."
"Please. I feel like I could drink an entire pot."
He gestures toward a cabinet. "Mugs are up there. Help yourself."
The simple invitation to move freely in his space, to open cabinets and take what I need without asking permission, feels strangely significant. I select a solid blue mug and pour coffee, adding a splash of milk from the carton he's left on the counter.
"Sleep okay?" he asks, returning his attention to the stove.
"Better than I expected," I admit, leaning against the counter. "Thank you again for letting me stay."
He shrugs as if providing sanctuary to runaway brides is something he does regularly. "Hungry? I'm making pancakes."
"Starving, actually."
As if to confirm this, my stomach growls audibly. I laugh, surprising myself with the sound.
I wonder when was the last time I laughed without calculating its appropriateness first?
Arthur attempts to flip a pancake with what I can only describe as excessive confidence. It lands half on the spatula, half folded against the edge of the pan, creating a misshapen mess. He frowns at it, and I laugh again, the sound bubbling up naturally.
"Maybe stick to firefighting," I suggest, taking a sip of coffee to hide my smile.
He glances at me, one eyebrow raised, but there's a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Everyone's a critic." He scrapes the failed pancake onto a plate and starts another. "My pancake technique is usually better when I'm not distracted."
The implication that I'm distracting hangs in the air between us, not uncomfortable but charged with something I'm not ready to examine.
