Don’t you lie to your grandmother, Beau Wilder.
Also she’s sweet. And curvy. And you’re welcome.
I close my eyes and exhale through my nose, slow and controlled.
Because I know that tone.
I know that satisfaction.
And I know my grandmother didn’t “happen” to tell the Mercantile about the new renter.
She set this up.
The cabin. The timing. The road. The rescue call.
She orchestrated the whole damn thing like Timber Creek’s very own Cupid with arthritis and a vendetta against my solitude.
My phone buzzes again.
June:
Bring her to dinner Sunday.
And before you say no?—
I already told her it’s a town tradition.
I stare at the message, jaw clenched.
Then I look back at the cabin window—at the warm glow and the faint shadow moving inside.
Mila.
Curvy complication.
City girl with a cupcake air freshener and a laugh that makes my chest hurt.
And suddenly my quiet life doesn’t feel quiet anymore.
It feels like it’s about to start.
THREE
MILA
The first thing I learn about Bluebird Cabin is that it’s quiet in a way that makes you hear yourself.
Not your thoughts—those are already loud and dramatic, thank you—but thelittlesounds. The click of the deadbolt. The sigh of the heater. The soft pop of the fireplace trying to catch like it’s flirting with the idea of warmth but not ready to commit.
I set my bags down by the door and just… stand there.
The cabin is exactly what I came for. Cozy. Warm wood everywhere. A small kitchen with open shelves and mismatched mugs. A plaid throw blanket draped over the couch like it’s posing for a lifestyle photo. A stack of books on the coffee table that includes a dog-eared romance novel with a shirtless man and a suspicious amount of chest hair.
Timber Creek does not do subtle.
I peel off my gloves, rub my hands together, and exhale.
“Okay,” I whisper to the empty cabin. “We made it. Nobody died. Darlene and I are officially survivors.”
