Chapter Four
Cass
A pale winter sun hung low over Wintervale, spilling silvery light across the snowbanks as I eased my truck into the icy driveway of Barrington Manor—Rory’s soon-to-be Evergreen Inn. It still jarred me recalling how I’d discovered Cyrus was my father through a 23andMe test. I’d never expected to learn who my father was, as even the adoption agency that facilitated my adoption as a baby didn’t have that information.
Today, though, I shoved my private turmoil aside. I had a job to do: haul out junk furniture, help Rory lighten the load of Cyrus’s leftovers, and inch her closer to her dream of a functioning bed-and-breakfast. The day had barely started, and I was already on my third trip to the local dump and Goodwill drop-off.
The foyer looked like a staging ground for an estate sale gone wrong—stacked wardrobes, tattered chairs, mismatched lamps, piles of chipped dressers that Cyrus had apparently accumulated in his more eccentric days. Some items were clearly beyond saving, with rotted legs or broken frames, while others looked salvageable but didn’t suit Rory’s plans for the inn.
I hefted a cracked bureau onto a dolly, muscles protesting after hours of repetitive lifting. Rory stood by, tucking hair into a messy bun, and giving me a nod of encouragement. Bramble, already looking healthier after a couple of hearty meals and a good night’s rest, circled our ankles sniffing curiously.
“Looks like this one’s too far gone,” I said, nudging the damaged side with my boot. Mold had eaten away at the wood. “Better off at the dump.”
Rory wrinkled her nose. “Agreed. Sorry you have to lug that mess.”
I shrugged, forcing a grin. “It’s all part of the fun, right?” I carted the bureau outside, loading it onto my truck bed next to a battered vanity. A swirl of wind cut through me, but the physical labor kept my blood pumping. I couldn’t believe how much junk Cyrus hoarded. The man apparently hadn’t parted with a single piece of furniture, no matter how ruined.
On my next haul I wrestled an old steamer trunk, smelling of mothballs, into the back of the truck. Something clunked inside. Eager to ensure it wasn’t trashing any hidden heirlooms, I flipped the lid open. Sure enough, I found a photo album wedged under moth-eaten blankets.
Fancy black-and-white shots…My chest squeezed. The pictures showed a younger Cyrus Barrington, probably even younger than I was now, dressed in a tux, arm linked with a light-haired woman in a glittering gown. They stood beneath crystal chandeliers, presumably at some high-society gala. Shock flooded me at how much I resembled the man—same nose, same strong jaw, though he appeared far happier in these photos than the stories of his reclusive later years suggested. What happened to reduce him to a bitter hermit, allowing this gorgeous estate to crumble?
I flipped another page. Cyrus and the same woman, both a little older now, exchanging smiles at a restaurant as waitstaff hovered behind them. The date scrawled in pen: “Summer, 1970.”
My mind churned with unanswered questions: Where did my mother fit in? I’d done enough research to know that the woman pictured in this album was likely Cyrus’s wife, Patricia, and that the marriage didn’t produce children before she passed away from cancer in her early 30’s. However, Cyrus continued to be a prominent figure in town—serving on various boards and philanthropies, hosting lavish parties, and employing full household of staff—landscapers, housekeepers, cooks—so how had he ended up alone? I tucked the album aside carefully. Dumping it felt wrong. This was my father’s past—my past, in a way—whether I wanted to embrace it or not.
I swallowed hard and grabbed another trunk, ignoring the pang in my chest. If Rory knew who I really was, would she feel betrayed that I hadn’t told her from day one?
After a round trip to discard the truly unsalvageable items, I returned to find Rory in the east hallway scraping wallpaper. The overhead lights flickered slightly—still running off partial wiring. She wore a paint-stained hoodie and jeans, stands of chestnut hair coming loose from her bun, with streaks of old wallpaper dust on her cheeks. Even like that, she looked…radiant. Her optimism radiated through each push of the scraper.
“You survived the dump, I see,” she teased, wiping sweat from her brow.
I propped the dolly against the wall. “Barely. Found some interesting keepsakes, though. Might share them later if you’re curious.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Cyrus’s hoarding, I assume?”
“Yep.” I kept my tone light. “But hey, want a hand with this? My arms could use a different workout than hauling dressers.”
She handed me a spare scraper. “Be my guest.”
Minutes slid into an hour as we peeled away the faded floral patterns. It was oddly soothing, watching the walls reveal their original plaster. Beneath the stubborn layers, I saw a glimmer of what this house could become if we stripped back years of neglect. Rory’s grin brightened each time a particularly large sheet of wallpaper tore free.
“Look at that,” she exclaimed, flicking stray bits off her hoodie. “Once we patch these cracks, maybe fresh paint or new wallpaper with a modern twist.”
My chest loosened at her excitement. She’s unstoppable, I thought, noticing how Bramble dozed near the hall’s threshold, ears twitching every so often.
Eventually, we needed fresh air. Bramble stirred, wagging his tail at the door, so we took a break. Outside, the sky was crystalline, the snow glistening. Rory grabbed a small rubber ball—one of the cheap toys I’d picked up at the store. Bramble bounded after it on stubby legs, slipping a few times but never losing his newfound enthusiasm.
“Come on, Bramble!” Rory called, laughing. She threw the ball lightly, sending it skidding across the powdery ground. The pup chased it, tail wagging like mad.
I crossed my arms, smiling at her pure delight. “He’s a natural fetcher.”
“Guess so.” She tossed the ball again. Then, seemingly on impulse, she scooped up a handful of snow, hurling it my way. It splattered harmlessly off my jacket.
“Oh, you did not just…” I shot her a mock glare, already reaching down to grab my own chunk of snow. She shrieked in feigned outrage, diving behind a shrub.
Soon, a flurry of hastily formed snowballs flew through the air. Bramble barked in confusion, scampering between us. Laughter echoed across the garden remnants, each flying snowball fueling the giddy sense of release. In the swirl of white, Rory yelped, skidding on a hidden patch of ice.
I lunged forward instinctively, catching her arm, but the momentum yanked me off balance. My boots lost traction, and I toppled backward—dragging her down with me. We landed with a muffled thud, soft snow cushioning most of the impact. I found myself half on top of her, chest pressed to hers, our breaths a ragged tangle in the cold air.
For a beat, neither of us moved. My heart thundered. Rory’s eyes widened, and her lips parted, forming a small, breathless “oh.” My pulse roared in my ears, and warmth surged low in my gut, intensifying with each second her body stayed beneath me. The adrenaline, the closeness, her feminine scent—I felt a hungry pull. What if we just gave in right now? The thought rushed through me, imagining how her soft curves would feel under less snowy circumstances, how it would be if we were inside, undressed, letting this tension resolve itself in passion.
My gaze dropped to her mouth. She didn’t pull away. For a breathtaking moment, I thought I might close that distance, taste her lips, see if the spark we kept dancing around would finally ignite. Desire pulsed—raw, urgent. But a flicker of memory surfaced: she wasn’t ready before, and I would respect that.
I forced myself to draw back, rolling off to the side. We lay panting in the snow, the crisp air chilling my face, though my body still burned. Rory swallowed hard, cheeks flushed.
“I…I’m sorry,” I managed, pushing myself upright, offering a hand to help her stand. “Didn’t mean to flatten you.”
She let out a shaky laugh, sliding her hand into mine. “No harm. I’m fine.” For a moment, her eyes flickered with an unspoken need, but she masked it quickly. “Guess that’s enough snowball fighting.”
With that, she brushed off her coat, turning to fuss over Bramble. My chest ached, half disappointment, half relief. So close, I thought, swallowing the lingering heat. If she only knew how much I want her. But guilt continued to gnaw at me with the secret I was keeping.
Once we’d shaken the snow from our boots, we took refuge in the house’s foyer. Bramble, presumably exhausted from fetch and the short but frantic snowball fight, curled up on his dog bed we’d set in a corner. I busied myself wiping off the last of the slush, still replaying the sensation of Rory’s body pinned beneath mine.
She cleared her throat, arms folded around herself. “Thanks for the rescue,” she joked weakly, cheeks still a faint pink. “I almost face-planted into a drift.”
“No problem,” I replied, forcing a light tone. “You still owe me for pelting me with that killer snowball.”
Her lips twitched in a shaky smile. “Guilty as charged.” We both laughed, tension shimmering beneath the surface.
The rest of the afternoon passed in sporadic tasks. I did a final dump run, disposing of the last load of broken furniture, while Rory prepped a section of wallpaper to strip. Each time we crossed paths, our eyes caught briefly. My chest tightened with unspoken questions: If only I could tell her the truth—about Cyrus, about my real heritage. Would it change what’s happening between us? Or would it ruin any chance we have?
I resented the man who was my biological father for letting everything decay, for leaving behind a mess. Yet some part of me longed to understand the Cyrus Barrington who was once apparently vibrant—enough to appear in fancy galas with a wife. That photo album, now tucked safely in my truck, weighed on me like a secret record of my father’s real life.
Meanwhile, Rory—her every movement punctuated with a radiant excitement—made me crave closeness, but also fear how she might react to my big reveal. If she saw me as a liar or felt betrayed, I’d lose the fragile bond we were forging. Still, I couldn’t ignore the desire that stirred whenever I glimpsed her determined smile or caught a flash of her curves beneath her sweater. The near-miss in the snow left me throbbing with a need I tried to bury under physical labor and polite banter.
By late afternoon, our energy flagged. We agreed to pick up the next stage—more wallpaper stripping, rummaging for replacement tile—first thing tomorrow. Rory sighed, leaning on the banister. “That’s enough for one day, I think. Bramble looks wiped out, and I’m not far behind him.”
I nodded, scanning the dim hallway. “Same. We made decent progress, anyway.”
As I grabbed my coat, Bramble scrambled up from his dog bed to investigate. Rory scooped him into her arms, murmuring endearments. My heart panged at the sweet sight. “I’ll head out,” I said softly, voice catching. “Thanks for the help—and sorry if I… you know, tackled you too hard earlier.”
She lowered her gaze, the corners of her lips curving. “It’s fine, Cass. Really.”
With that, I stepped closer, instincts screaming at me to bridge the gap. But respect for her boundaries held me back. She watched me a moment, exhaling quietly, as if she, too, felt a sliver of regret that we weren’t crossing that line just yet.
I forced a small grin. “Bright and early tomorrow, then?”
She smiled in return, hugging Bramble tighter. “I’ll be ready.”
Turning away, I slipped out the door. Cold air hit me like a slap, reminding me that a winter dusk in Wintervale waited outside. As I trudged to my truck, I replayed the day’s highlights—the playful snowball fight, that fiery moment when we fell into each other. One day, I’d have to come clean. But not yet. For now, I’d revel in the slow burn of our connection, hoping that when Rory Lancaster learned the truth, she wouldn’t turn me away.