But the wind slams against the truck, rocking it sideways, and the moment breaks.
"Let's get inside," he says. "I'll come back for your cooler."
We make a run for it. Jake's hand finds the small of my back, guiding me up the porch steps, and I tell myself the shiver that runs through me is from the temperature.
The door swings open, and warmth rushes out to meet us. I stumble inside, shaking snow from my hair, and stop dead.
Vaulted ceilings. Stone fireplace. Leather couches. A kitchen that makes me want to cry with joy.
But it’s not staged. It’s lived in.
A book open on the table. A mug by the sink. A blanket tossed over the couch.
This is a home.
"You can take the guest room upstairs," Jake says. "I’ll get a fire going."
"I can help—"
"You’re shivering."
I am. I hadn't noticed.
He crosses to a closet and pulls out a blanket, tossing it to me. It's soft and heavy and smells like cedar.
"Warm up," he says. "I'll be right back."
He's out the door before I can argue, heading back into the storm for my cooler. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and explore.
Bookshelves line one wall. A guitar leans in one corner, dusty but not forgotten. Photos on the mantle of Jake with an older couple, his parents maybe. Jake with Dean, both of them younger, grinning at the camera like they don't have a care in the world. Jake as a kid, maybe ten or eleven, with his arm slung around a younger little girl with the same mischievous grin. Sister, probably.
No photos of other women. I notice this, then hate myself for noticing.
The kitchen pulls me in like a magnet. I run my fingers over the quartz counters, the professional-grade range, the copper pots hanging from a rack overhead.
The door opens behind me, and Jake appears with my cooler in his arms. Snow clings to his hair, his shoulders, his eyelashes.He looks like a winter god, and I need to stop thinking things like that immediately.
"Where do you want this?" he asks.
"Counter's fine."
He sets it down, and I busy myself checking the contents.
"Hungry?" I ask, because cooking is easier than talking.
"I could eat."
"Then prepare to have your life changed." I pull out a container of pre-rolled buns, ready for baking. "These need about twenty minutes in the oven. You have a working oven, right? Please tell me that beauty isn’t just for show."
"I have a working oven."
"Thank God." I locate a baking sheet and start arranging the dough. "I was worried you were going to be one of those men who only owns a microwave and a coffee maker."
"I know how to cook."
"Prove it."
He raises an eyebrow but moves to the fridge, pulling out ingredients I didn't expect—fresh herbs, actual vegetables, what looks like homemade pasta sauce. Within minutes, he's got water boiling and garlic sizzling in a pan, moving through his kitchen with an ease that makes my mouth go dry.
