But then I see he isn’t alone. A woman stands at the bottom of the steps, her back to me. She’s bundled in a puffy coat, but I can tell—she’s curvy, plus-size. Not just plus-size—my size. My shape. From here, we could be sisters, or at least shopping in the same department.
There’s a flash of something bright in her gloved hand—red, maybe pink—a little gift bag or maybe a box, the kind you only carry for a reason. Valentine’s Day. I feel it like a bruise.
I can’t hear a thing, but Boyd is talking with his hands—wide, impatient gestures, chopping the air, then a dismissive flick of his wrist like he’s swatting away a gnat. The woman flinches back, shoulders curling in, but she doesn’t budge. I can tell she’s holding herself together by a thread.
Boyd’s gaze drops, trails slowly down her body and up again—obvious, exaggerated, even from this distance. He gives a slow, dramatic shake of his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. I don’t need sound to know that look: I expected more. I expected better.
The pit in my stomach goes cold.
The woman says something—her chin lifts, stubborn, maybe asking a question, maybe defending herself. Boyd laughs. Not a real laugh—a big, theatrical pantomime for effect, head thrown back, hand planted on his chest. The kind people do when they want to make fun, not share a joke.
He makes a sweeping gesture, like he’s shooing her offstage. Done. Get lost. Not even worth the effort of a civilized goodbye.
She freezes. Just for a second. Then she turns and walks away, stiff and determined—quick, but not running. Dignity barely intact, the red bag swinging at her side as she goes.
My throat tightens. I know that walk. God, do I know it.
The walk you do when someone’s just made you feel very, very small, but you refuse to let them see you break.
A cold realization trickles in: Was he planning to meet her before me? Did he set up back-to-back Valentine’s dates, just cycling through women in case the first one didn’t measure up?
My stomach twists. If I hadn’t gotten lost, that could have been me—gift bag in hand, or worse: me, arms full of groceries and a Dutch oven, ready to cook him dinner like some hopeful romantic, while he laughed me off his porch. The humiliation wouldn’t just have been public—it would’ve been total. Every bit of care I put into the meal, every hour spent braising and planning, would’ve just made it sting that much more.
I lower the binoculars. My hands are shaking.
“That’s him,” I say, my voice hollow. “Coralyn said he had dark hair, finance job, green roofed cabin. That has to be Boyd.” My stomach lurches. “That was supposed to be me.”
Four hours of driving. The perfect short ribs. The green sweater I picked because it makes me feel confident. The pep talk in the mirror: You deserve someone who sees you. The tote bag of groceries waiting in the back seat. I was ready to walk up like some eager fool, arms full and heart wide open, to cook him a dinner he didn’t even deserve.
“I was supposed to be standing there,” I whisper. “I was supposed to walk up and introduce myself, and he would have looked at me like—” I gesture weakly at the window, to the scene now swallowed by snow. “Like that. Because she looked like me. And he looked at her like she was nothing.”
My mind flashes through Coralyn’s description. Shy. Wanted it private. Now I see it: not for romance, but because he wanted to make sure there’d be no witnesses. No one to step in while he tore someone down.
“Coralyn said he was nice.” I can barely get the words out. “She just thought he was shy. She couldn’t have known.”
I stare as the clouds close in, the whole scene erased by white. But I saw enough.
“That man,” Finn says, voice low and certain, “isn’t worth driving through a blizzard for.”
I look at him. No pity, just a steady, grounded certainty.
“No,” I say, steadier now. “No, he isn’t.”
I glance back at the storm, at the place where humiliation could so easily have been mine. What I feel isn’t disappointment. It’s relief—a tidal wave of it.
“The universe,” I murmur, “has a real sense of humor. Wrong address, wrong cabin, and it turns out the guy my best friend thought was perfect…” I gesture out the window, “He’s probably proud of himself right now. Dodged a bullet.”
We both did, I think. He just doesn’t know it.
“Women like me aren’t his type,” I say, trying to keep it light and failing. “You saw how he looked at her. At her body.”
Finn’s jaw tightens. “I saw.”
“She looked like me. Same build. Same—” I wave a hand at my curves, the body I’ve spent years learning to love and then unlearning and then trying to love again. “Too much, according to my ex. Too big, too loud, too everything.”
The words hang in the air between us. I don’t know why I’m telling him this. Maybe because I’m shaken. Maybe because this whole situation is so absurd that my usual filters have completely failed. Maybe because something about Finn McGrath—this quiet, guarded stranger whose kitchen I invaded—makes me want to be honest.
He’s silent for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is rough, almost angry—but not at me.
