I pocket the phone and finish the last logs, swinging harder than needed. The rhythmic thud drowns the irritation crawling under my skin. By the time the sun starts its early winter slide behind the ridge, around four thirty, the pile’s respectable, and I’m resigned.
Inside the cabin, the air’s thick with the smell of pine logs and this morning's coffee. Stone fireplace, leather couch from my city days, and my workbench in the corner, stacked with half-finished carvings, mostly of bears—the animal, not the dog. I built most of this place with my own hands. Every joist, every nail. It’s quiet and mine.
I take a quick shower, hot water hammering my back. Scrubbing off the sawdust and the sweat. I run a hand through my wet hair. In the steamed mirror, I look the part of a mountain man: broad, bearded, eyes shadowed from too many solitary nights. Rough around the edges.
I put on clean jeans, a black thermal Henley, and a thick, dark-green flannel shirt. Bear watches me lace up, head cocked.
“Don’t give me that look,” I tell him. “It’s not a date. I’m only going to get Emily off my back.”
He huffs, obviously not believing me.
The drive to town is twenty minutes of winding, snow-packed roads. Even with chains on the tires, I drive slowly with my low beams cutting through the dusk. The Rusty Pine squats at the edge of Main Street. Its log exterior is covered in string lights twinkling against the early dark, smoke curling lazily from the chimney. It’s the only bar around here that isn’t a tourist trap. The patrons are mostly local, and there’s no drama.
I park, kill the engine, and sit for a minute gripping the wheel.
One drink.
I hop out of my truck, open the bar door, and step inside.
Warmth hits like a wall, with the smells of woodsmoke, fried food, and the low murmur of conversation under the hum of a hockey game on the TV. String lights loop the beams, casting gold across scarred tables.
I scan for an exit more than the face of the woman I’m supposed to be meeting. Then I see her.
She’s at a high-top by the window, back to me, but unmistakable from the photo. Dark curls cascading down her back. Red sweater clinging to every generous curve. Laughing at something her friend says. Her laughter is bright and open, the sound slicing clean through the bar noise and landing square in my chest.
My boots freeze to the floorboards.
She turns just enough for the light to catch her face. Her full lips are curved in a smile, cheeks pink from the heat or maybe her drink, green eyes sparkling like they hold summer inside them even in the dead of winter.
She’s vivid. Alive in a way that makes the quiet I’ve wrapped myself suddenly feel like not enough.
My pulse kicks hard, and it’s not just attraction—though hell, her curves alone could drop a man—but something deeper. A pull. Like my body recognizes her before my brain can argue.
I should turn around. Walk out before she spots me. Before I ruin whatever peace she’s got going.
But my feet move anyway.
She glances up as I approach, green eyes locking on mine. Surprise flashes into curiosity, then a warmth that makes the cold outside feel like a distant memory.
“Hi,” her friend says, voice light, a little breathless. “You must be Nathan?”
I nod, throat tight. “Yeah. Katherine?” I ask, looking at the gorgeous woman and not her friend.
“Katy,” she corrects, smile widening until it crinkles her eyes. “Friends call me Katy.”
Her friend grins like she’s won something, then stands fast. “Oh, look at the time! I just remembered I have… a thing. You two have fun!”
She’s out the door before we can blink, leaving me standing there feeling like an idiot in flannel.
Katy laughs softly. “Real subtle, huh?”
I rub the back of my neck. “Your friend set this up?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure exactly what this is.” She tilts her head, studying me without flinching. “You don’t look thrilled about it.”
“I’m not big on surprises.”
“Understood.” She pats the stool next to her. “But you’re here. Wanna sit and share a drink? No strings.”
