“Evening,” he calls, voice rough against the wind. “Saw you out here working on the car. Figured you’ll be stuck a couple of days, so I thought I’d bring this by.”
He hefts a wooden box from the truck bed, steam curling into the cold. “Name’s Tom. My wife and I own the place. She bakeda cinnamon streusel coffee cake yesterday and packed a thermos of mulled cider. Nothing fancy, but it’ll keep you warm.”
The heat sears through my gloves. Cinnamon and sugar hit hard, sweet in a way that doesn’t belong out here in the cold.
“Appreciate it,” I grunt, shifting the box under one arm.
He nods toward the driveway, where the car sits buried under a pile of snow. “That yours?”
“Yeah. Well, it’s a rental,” I mutter, jaw tight. “They didn’t have much left with flights being grounded.”
“Won’t get far in that,” he says simply. “County plows won’t make it out here until the main roads are cleared. Could be hours, could be a couple of days, depending how bad the drifts get. Best thing you can do is hunker down, stay warm, and enjoy the quiet while you’ve got it.”
His firm voice is matter-of-fact. Still, there’s a hint of warmth under it. He claps a gloved hand against the box like it seals the deal. “Don’t worry. You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you need to.”
“Thanks,” I grunt, shifting the box under one arm. “Means a lot.”
“Don’t mention it.” He tips his cap before climbing back in the cab. “Stay safe, son.”
I stand there with the crate in my arms, watching his truck disappear down the driveway. The faint smell of cinnamon has my stomach growling, like I hadn’t eaten only a few hours ago.
When I trudge back inside, I figure Tessa’s still out cold on the couch. I tell myself I’ll drop the box on the counter and head straight down the hall, force myself to get some sleep.
And then I see her.
She’s at the counter, hair a mess, cheeks pink from sleep. That sweater’s slipped off her shoulder again, skin catching in the dim kitchen light. Barefoot, toes curled against the woodfloor, mug cupped in both hands. Her eyes flick to the crate, and her face lights up.
“Oh my God, what is that? It smells amazing.”
Her voice is soft, but it cuts right through the cold stuck in my chest.
I set the box on the counter harder than I need to, snow dripping onto the floor. “Owner stopped by. His wife sent him by with cinnamon streusel cake and cider.” My voice comes out rough.
She steps closer, pulling the towel back. Sugar and spice roll up thick, sweet enough to taste. Her shoulder brushes mine, and I go rigid.
“Guess even Scrooge gets a Christmas miracle,” she murmurs, grinning up at me.
I grunt, yanking off my gloves. My fingers are stiff and numb. She gives me a once-over, eyes narrowing.
“You’re soaked,” she says, half a laugh under her breath. “Go change before you freeze or wind up sick.”
I don’t argue.
When I come back, warmth still clings to my clean clothes, and the smell of cinnamon fills the air. The kitchen’s a mess with ingredients everywhere, flour dusting Tessa’s cheek. She’s barefoot, apron crooked, stirring a bowl like she’s been at it for hours.
“You’re just in time,” she says brightly, sliding a plate of coffee cake toward me. “They gave us ingredients too, so we’re making gingerbread man cookies.”
Her excitement’s ridiculous. And infectious. I sit, fork in hand, eyes on her while she digs through cupboards, pulling out bowls with way too much energy for this late.
“I’ve missed baking every Christmas,” she chatters, dumping sugar into a bowl with more enthusiasm than precision.“The twins would eat all the frosting before I even finished decorating…”
Steven’s kids. I know exactly who she means, even without her saying their names. I can see them now—green frosting on their cheeks and sprinkles spilled all over the place, tearing through the kitchen while she tries to keep up.
Her laugh bursts out, loud and unfiltered, catching me off guard. It lands harder than it should, tugging at that part of my chest I keep trying to ignore.
Then the smell of something sharp and burnt.
“Shit!” She grabs the oven mitt and yanks the tray out in a cloud of smoke. Half the cookies cave in the middle, and the rest are blackened around the edges. She groans and swipes her hair out of her face, leaving a streak of flour across her cheek.
