I stand at the sink, gripping its edge until my knuckles whiten. The cabin feels impossibly altered now, as if her presence has revealed dimensions I've deliberately ignored for two decades.
I'm acutely, painfully aware of her just down the hall—not just a beautiful, intriguing young woman anymore, but David's daughter. My goddaughter.
I move to the fire, stoking it mechanically. The flames rise, casting shadows that dance across the walls.
The revelation of her identity should extinguish the attraction I've been fighting. Instead, it's transformed it into something more complex—desire tangled with guilt, nostalgia, a sense of lost time and missed connections.
She's still the same intelligent, perceptive woman who tasted my syrup with such understanding, whose hands move with chef's precision. But now she's also a living reminder of everything I abandoned.
And God help me, knowing exactly who she is hasn't diminished my awareness of her in the slightest. If anything, the forbidden nature of that attraction only intensifies it, adding layers of guilt that make it impossible to ignore.
I pour myself a finger of whiskey, staring into the fire. Twenty years of constructed isolation, shattered in a single evening by a snowstorm and David Winters' daughter.
The universe, it seems, has a particularly cruel sense of humor.
The whiskey burns going down, a welcome distraction from more complex feelings. I remind myself that she'll be gone tomorrow. The plow will come through, her car will be freed, and she'll return to whatever journey brought her to these mountains.
Our paths briefly crossed, nothing more.
I set the empty glass down harder than necessary. I turn toward my bedroom, extremely aware of her just down the hall, separated by nothing but timber and intention.
She's David's daughter, I remind myself fiercely.She's half your age. She's innocent, trusting, and completely off-limits.
I close my bedroom door firmly, as if the physical barrier can somehow contain the unwanted feelings. Tomorrow, she'll be gone, and this unexpected disruption will end.
It has to.
Chapter 4 – Sage
The guest room is cold. Not unbearably so, but enough that I can't quite get comfortable under the quilt. I lie in the darkness, listening to the cabin settle.
Sleep feels impossible. My mind keeps circling back to dinner, the moment everything shifted.
I pull the quilt tighter, but the chill has settled into my bones. I should have asked for those extra blankets he mentioned, but after everything, pride stopped me.
I slide out of bed, wincing as my bare feet hit the cold wooden floor, and make my way to the small fireplace in the corner of the room. It's been prepared but not lit—kindling and logs arranged with the same precise care Silas seems to bring to everything. There's a box of matches on the mantle, and I strike one, touching it to the kindling. It catches immediately, small flames licking at the dry bark.
But within minutes, it's clear something isn't right. Instead of drawing up the chimney, smoke begins to curl into the room. I fiddle with what I assume is a flue, but the smoke only thickens. My eyes begin to water as I try to figure out what I'm doing wrong.
There must be something blocking the chimney. Or maybe it needs to be opened from elsewhere. Either way, this isn't working.
I quickly stamp out the budding fire before the room fills completely with smoke, burning my palm on a hot ember in the process. The sharp pain makes me gasp. In the dim light, I can see an angry red mark across my palm, already starting to blister.
"Perfect," I mutter, moving to the small adjoining bathroom to run cold water over the burn. It stings fiercely under the stream, and I bite my lip to keep from making noise. The last thing I want is to wake Silas and confirm whatever opinion he's formed about my competence.
"What are you doing?"
I startle, nearly hitting my head on the cabinet above the sink. Silas stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the darkness of the bedroom. I hadn't heard him approach, but now he fills the small space with his presence, suddenly very real and very close.
"Sorry," I say automatically. "I was trying to light the fireplace, but there seems to be a problem with the chimney. I didn't mean to disturb you."
"I never use that fireplace," he says, stepping closer. "The chimney's capped. I should have mentioned it."
He reaches past me to turn off the tap, his arm brushing mine in the confined space. Even that brief contact sends warmth spreading up my skin.
"Let me see," he says, nodding toward my hand.
"It's fine. Just a small burn."
