Chapter 3
Chapter Three
COOKIE
The second Red trudges out into the storm to check my poor car, I know I'm screwed—and not in a good way.
But damn, Beth was right. He is my type—he’s anyone’s type.
Snowflakes whip past his broad frame, and his shoulders hunch against the wind.
Not long after my arrival, the storm turned vicious in minutes, transforming innocent snowfall into something that belongs in a disaster movie.
Through the curtain of white, he stalks around my car, his practiced movements confident despite the chaos swirling around him.
He tries to yank open the driver's door, failing miserably, may I add, then stomps to the passenger one.
I’m surprised he doesn’t tear it from its hinges. My poor car.
I watch as he slides behind the wheel, his brows knitted together. The engine turns over with a reluctant whine, then coughs like it's ready to die. When he presses the gas, the tires spin helplessly, whirring against the mounting snow but going nowhere.
I hug myself on the porch, my teeth chattering so hard I worry they might crack.
The Santa dress seemed cute and festive back at the bakery, but now it feels like soggy tissue paper against the mountain cold.
My legs are numb from my thighs to my toes, and I can't feel my fingers despite stuffing them under my arms.
Red shoves his way out of my car, scowling as he mutters something to it.
"She's got character, you know!" I call out over the howling wind, trying to inject a bit of cheer into what's becoming a nightmare scenario. "All she needs is a little TLC and maybe some prayer!"
I’m praying I’m right, because as nice as Red is to look at, it’s clear he doesn’t want me here.
His head whips toward me through the snow. Even from twenty feet away, those blue eyes could freeze hell over.
"What she needs is a grave." His voice carries despite the storm. "You're not driving her anywhere tonight."
My stomach drops to my frozen toes. Beth and I checked the weather before I left—light snow, they said.
What is this weather?
I remember Beth telling me if the weather got bad, I’d be stuck up here, but I didn’t actually expect that to happen.
Now look at me.
Red stalks back into the cabin, his jaw is set in a way that suggests he's mentally composing a lecture about city idiots who don't respect mountain weather.
"I know what you're thinking." I follow him as quickly as my numb legs will carry me. "But this wasn't—Beth didn't send me up here knowing it was going to be like this."
He stops at the doorway, snow falling from his shoulders. "Beth sent you here. Figures.”
"She was worried about you." The words come out sharper than I intend, defensive on Beth's behalf.
"Her mom asked her to check on you—to make sure you were okay.
Alive. Eating." I hug myself against the cold.
"She knew you wouldn't open the door for her, so she asked me.
And the forecast was clear when I left."
Something changes in his expression—not softening exactly, but the anger changes slightly, replaced by something else.
"So, this wasn't about delivering gifts." His voice goes flat. "This was a welfare check."
“Well, the singing telegram seemed less depressing than showing up and saying, ‘your family thinks you might be dead.’” I attempt a smile that doesn't quite land. "But I did bring gifts.”
I glance at the table where he threw the boxes earlier. “At least open mine.” Then I realize I haven’t even told him my name. “I’m Cookie, by the way.” I hold my hand out, smiling brightly.
He stares at me for a long moment, those blue eyes unreadable.
I retract my hand, my smile fading.
Okay…
“Fine, I’ll do it.” I stride to the table and grab the box with the sweater in. “I hope I got the right size.”
He watches wordlessly as I open the packaging and show him the sweater.
“Well?” I prompt, dread creeping up my throat. I wish he’d say something.
Anything.
"I don't need checking on." The words come out flat, final.
Oh.
I place the sweater carefully on the back of a chair and turn to him. "Everyone needs—"
He turns away, effectively ending the conversation.
I hurry to the fire, desperately seeking heat. The warmth inside hits like heaven. Heat from the fireplace wraps around me, and I resist the urge to strip off my festive costume and curl up naked by the flames.
He tosses another log onto the flames, sending sparks leaping and dancing.
The firelight plays across his features, highlighting the defined lines of his cheekbones and the thick beard that can't hide the tension in his mouth.
I try not to stare at the way his flannel shirt stretches across his shoulders, the fabric pulling taut as he crouches by the fire.
Try and fail.
Jeez, so he's hot, but he's still a grump.
Beth will worry when I don't come home tonight. My phone has twelve percent battery and zero bars of service. I glance around, calculating my situation—stranded on a mountain with a man who slammed the door in my face less than an hour ago.
The cabin darkens as the storm swallows what's left of the daylight. Through the window, I can barely make out my car, which is already half-buried in snow. I've been here for less than an hour, and the world outside has turned into a white void.
I look around his space, my mind racing nearly as fast as my pulse.
The cabin is larger than it appeared from outside, with exposed wooden beams and furniture that looks handmade.
Everything is clean but sparse, like he's stripped away anything that isn't necessary.
There are no photographs or decorations, nothing that speaks of Christmas or even happy memories.
Not even a sad little tree or a single string of lights.
Who lives like this? What kind of life is just... existing?
Well, this is perfect. Just perfect. If I have to get snowed in somewhere, couldn't it have been a charming B&B with hot chocolate and reliable Wi-Fi?
I love how it’s all in one room, though. Like a studio. My gaze drifts toward the far wall, and I freeze.
There's only one bed.
Of course there is. He lives alone. But still—if I stay overnight, where will I sleep?
______________
SOME HOURS LATER
"You take the bed." His voice comes out rougher than before, like gravel and whiskey. "I'll take the chair."
After an awkward silence-filled few hours, his words startle me. I glance at the reading chair near the fire. It looks comfortable enough for an hour of reading, maybe two. But for sleeping? For a man his size?
"That thing? You'll never get back up in the morning."
"I'll manage."
"But—"
"It’s not up for debate." He's already pulling a blanket from a trunk, tossing it over the chair. "The storm should pass by morning. You'll be out of here and I’ll have my peace back."
The dismissal stings more than it should.
"Right." I force brightness into my voice. "Well, thanks for not letting me freeze to death on your porch. I really appreciate it."
He doesn't respond.
Gosh, what is his problem?
I retreat to the bed, suddenly aware of how much space I'm taking up in his life. The quilt smells like wood smoke, pine, and something clean. I try not to think about that as I change into his oversized shirt, hyperaware of him trying not to look from across the room. Then it hits me: I’m alone in this isolated cabin, with a man who seems determined to keep his distance.
This shirt, and the hot drink he made me earlier imply he’s not uncaring, at least.
When I finally slide under the covers, the bed feels enormous. It feels wrong being in a stranger’s bed, especially when they don’t want you there.
"Red?"
"What?"
"Thanks. For letting me stay."
After an uncomfortably long pause, he replies, "I didn't have much of a choice." Then he almost winces, like he wishes he could take the words back.
Ouch.
I want to argue—you always have a choice—but my eyes are already closing, exhaustion pulling me under.
I stare at his silhouette across the room.
Tomorrow will be another day of this, but maybe, just maybe, he will thaw a little.
There's something about him that makes me want to try, despite everything.
Something wounded beneath all that gruffness that calls to the part of me that's always trying to fix things, even when they don't want fixing.
Across the room, I hear him try to settle into the chair. The wood creaks under his weight. He shifts once, twice, no doubt trying to find a position that won't cripple him by morning.
He won't find one.
But I'm too tired to fight him on it tonight.