“You’re not too much.”
I stare at him. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.” His eyes hold mine, steady and sure. “I know you drove four hours to meet someone. I know you cooked a meal that takes real skill because you wanted to share something you’re good at. I know you’re standing in a stranger’s house handling this situation with a lot more grace than most people would.” He pauses. “And I know that any man who looks at a woman the way that guy looked at her isn’t worth a damn. His opinion doesn’t mean anything.”
The words land somewhere deep, in a place I’ve kept carefully guarded since the divorce papers were signed.
I want to believe him. God, I want to.
But I’ve been here before. Stephen said kind things too, in the beginning.You’re so passionate about cooking, it’s adorable. I love how you light up when you talk about food. You’re not like other women—you’re real.
Sweet words that slowly curdled into sighs and eye-rolls anddo you have to be so much all the time?
Finn McGrath doesn’t know me. He’s seen me at my most chaotic—invading his home, rambling about braising techniques, falling apart over a blind date gone wrong. If he’s saying nice things now, it’s probably because he feels sorry for me. Or because he’s a decent person who doesn’t like seeing women get torn down. It doesn’t mean anything aboutme.
I force myself to look away from those gray eyes before I start reading things into them that aren’t there.
“So,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I expected, “what happens now?”
I don’t miss the way he seems almost surprised by the shift—like he expected a different response. A warmer one, maybe. The kind of response I would have given a year ago, before Stephen taught me that charming words from attractive men are just the opening act.
But I’m not that woman anymore. I can’t afford to be.
Chapter 4
FINN
“Get comfortable,” I say. “Storm’s going to keep us here for a while.”
I watch her process this, the emotions playing across her face like clouds moving over the mountains—resignation, anxiety, a flash of something that might be relief.
“Maybe I can still make it to town,” she says, glancing toward the window. “Before it gets worse.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. I soften it with: “Not in this weather. Not on that road.”
I cross to the emergency radio, turning up the volume so she can hear the latest update. The mechanical voice confirms what I already know: eighteen to twenty-four inches expected, winds gusting to sixty miles per hour, all mountain passes closed until further notice.
“Oh,” Marcella says softly, before looking around the space. “May I use the bathroom?”
I point her toward it and as the door closes behind her, I’m grateful for the moment alone, the ranger station feeling smaller with her in it.
Four years I’ve lived here, and the space has always felt exactly right. Room to breathe. Room to exist without the pressure of other people’s expectations. Now every corner seems to pulse with her presence—the Dutch oven still on my stove, the candle on my table, the faint trace of her perfume in the air.
I move through my storm prep checklist. Muscle memory. Check the generator fuel levels—three-quarters full, good for at least forty-eight hours of intermittent use. Confirm the woodpile by the back door—stacked high, seasoned oak and pine, enough to last a week if needed. Test the backup propane for the stove—full tank, barely touched since I refilled it last month. Fill extra water containers in case the pipes freeze—a precaution I’ve never needed but always take.
The routine steadies me. Gives my hands something to do while my mind processes the impossible situation I’ve found myself in. Each task is familiar, practiced. I could do this in my sleep. Have done it in my sleep, during the bad nights when staying busy is the only thing that keeps the dreams at bay.
A woman. In my home. For at least one night, probably more.
My chest tightens. The familiar squeeze of anxiety, the voice in my head cataloging everything that could go wrong. She’ll want to talk. She’ll ask questions. She’ll expect things from me—conversation, interaction, normalcy—that I’m not capable ofproviding. She’ll see how broken I am, how badly I function with other humans, and she’ll look at me with pity or disgust or both.
I grip the edge of the counter. Breathe. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
She’s not a threat, I tell myself.She’s not an obligation. She’s just a person who needs shelter from a storm. You can handle that.
The bathroom door opens. As Marcella emerges, I watch her take in the space with fresh eyes. The main room of the ranger station isn’t large, but I’ve made it functional. Kitchen flowing into living area. Stone fireplace as the centerpiece. My leather chair. The couch I built two years ago when Moira insisted I needed somewhere for guests to sit.
I’ve never had guests. Until now.
