“I guess not.”
I chuckle a little. “Turns out that for most of us, the mountain became our salvation anyway. It just looks different than we thought it would.”
She nods and reaches for me, taking my big, rough hand between her little, soft ones.
“What is this place for you?”
I answer without hesitation. “I can be myself here. Here I can think and work with the wood. I don’t need to pretend.”
“Are you pretending now?”
“No.” It’s an easy answer. “Not with you.”
We sit like that for a moment, just looking at each other, before she says, “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re broken. Maybe you just don’t like it when people see the real you.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “You make it sound simple.”
“It doesn’t have to be so hard, Holt.”
I let that sit with me. Maybe she’s right.
After a few minutes, the conversation shifts, and we move into safer topics while we finish our dinner. She asks about the shop, and I tell her about my furniture. The first table I made and how far I’ve come with my skills since. I tell her that I’ve sold a fewpieces locally and in nearby Rock Creek, but I’d like to figure out a way to expand my reach.
She listens like what I’m saying matters. When our bowls are empty, I set them aside and lean back on the couch, stretching my arm along the back until she cuddles into my chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I like having you here,” I admit, surprising myself.
She looks up at me in surprise.
“I do,” I tell her with a laugh. “This place feels different with you in it. Better.”
It’s the closest I’ll come to saying what I’m really thinking—that, despite a million reasons not to, I’m starting to feel things for her, things that make me want to hold on tight and never let go.
But it’s the truth. And for now, it’s enough.
Chapter Twelve
Tessa
“The roads are clear.”
Holt says it casually, trying to keep his voice light, but I can see the tension in the way he holds his shoulders.
“Mmm.” I pop another apple slice in my mouth and hop up to sit on the counter, swinging my legs.
He looks over his shoulder at me. “That’s it?”
“What would you like me to say?” I pause with an apple halfway to my lips. “Is this a good thing?”
He looks at me carefully but frustratingly doesn’t answer the question.
For the last few days, we’ve fallen into a rhythm together. It’s been…easy. Andnice.Lazy mornings tangled in the sheets. Afternoons with Holt in his shop, me curled up on the couch writing. My journaling slowly giving way to my own thoughts and feelings, becoming a story of sorts.
It’s been years since I wrote anything for myself, not beyond the journal entries that kept me sane. Too many years of papers and projects at college dulled my love for writing. But being here in this cabin with Holt was inspiring in a way I never could have expected.
Our evenings were spent cooking together. Or more specifically, Holt cooked while I distracted him in the best possible ways. More often than not, dinner grew cold—or burnt—while we lost ourselves in each other. It was a hunger I was quickly learning would not be easily satisfied.
I hadn’t given much thought to the roads opening, my dad coming home, or what was going to happen next.
