Chapter 4
Chapter Four
RED
Iwake up with my neck screaming and my shoulder locked at an angle that shouldn't be anatomically possible.
Then I remember the chair. Right. Because I'm a stubborn bastard who'd rather cripple himself than share a bed with a gorgeous woman who showed up on my porch in a Santa costume.
Gray light filters through the windows. The storm's still fucking awful from what I can see out the window. So, it looks like this woman still isn’t going anywhere fast. I try to move and have to bite back a curse—everything from my lower back to my skull feels like it's been put through a woodchipper.
I’m too fucking old for this.
I manage to unfold myself from the chair, each movement accompanied by cracking sounds. Bear lifts his head from his spot by the fire and gives me a look that clearly says, I told you so, and then goes back to sleep.
Traitor.
I feed logs to the fire, trying to work the stiffness out of my shoulders. Every movement reminds me that I'm forty, not twenty, and sleeping in chairs is no longer an option my body tolerates.
"How's your back?" Cookie chirps, clearly well rested after a good night’s sleep in my bed.
I don't turn around. I didn't hear her wake up, which means I'm more out of it than I thought. "Fine."
"Liar."
I glance over my shoulder. She's propped up on one elbow in my bed, hair a mess, wearing a shirt of mine. It looks good on her.
"You look like you fought a bear and lost,” she comments, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.
"A bear is friendlier than the chair,” I mutter, wincing as I stretch.
Her mouth curves, and something in my stomach does an uncomfortable flip. I turn back to the fire before she can see it on my face.
"If I have to stay tonight," she says, and there's a steely tone to her voice, "we're sharing the bed."
Here we go.
"We tried this conversation yesterday."
"And you won because I was too tired to fight. But I slept great, and you look like death." I hear the bed creak as she gets up, her bare feet padding across the floor. "So tonight, we're doing this differently."
I keep my eyes on the fire. "Cookie—"
"We're adults. We can share a bed without it being weird." She's closer now, close enough that her vanilla scent envelops me. "You take your side; I take mine. Simple."
Nothing about this is simple. Nothing about her has been simple since she knocked on my door.
I turn to face her, ready to argue. But she's standing there in my wrinkled shirt with pillow marks on her cheek, looking determined yet vulnerable, and the argument dies in my throat.
One more night in that chair and I won't be able to move for a week.
"Fine," I say, the word coming out rougher than I intend.
Her smile lights up her whole face. "Good. Now that we've settled that, Merry Christmas!"
I stare at her, surprised she even remembered. I didn’t.
“Yeah.” I shake my head.
Fucking Christmas. I’m not even religious—half the people who celebrate it aren’t. Hypocrites.
She's already moving toward the kitchen like she owns the place, and I watch her go, trying to figure out when exactly I lost control of my own cabin.
Probably the moment I opened the door.
She's been here for one night, and my cabin already feels different—smaller, in a weird way. For a blessed moment, silence settles over the cabin like fresh snow, exactly how I like it.
Except Cookie doesn't do silence.
She fills every corner with chatter, her voice bright and restless, like she's afraid of what might happen if she stops talking. I recognize the pattern. I’ve seen it in new recruits who couldn't handle the silence between patrols. The ones who talked themselves through their fear.
What's she afraid of?
"Do you have any coffee?" She's already scanning the kitchen, arms wrapped around herself against the cold.
I nod toward the counter. "There's a tin. To the left of the stove."
She finds the percolator and runs her fingers over the dented metal like she's assessing its history. The woman notices things—details most people miss. "Thank God. I was about to start chewing on furniture for caffeine."
My eyebrows lift before I can stop them. "Please don't. They took time to make."
Her head whips around, her eyes widening as she takes in the table, the chairs, the shelves. She trails her fingers along the table's edge, and I track the movement without meaning to. "You made this?"
I nod.
"It's beautiful. All of it."
The words hit differently coming from her, because I know she’s not just being polite. She’s genuine, like she sees what I put into each piece—the hours of sanding, the careful joinery, the need to create something that lasts. I love spending time in my tiny workshop out back; it keeps me sane.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, uncomfortable with the attention. Bear thumps his tail against my ankle, the traitor already halfway in love with her.
The percolator bubbles. She pours two mugs and crosses to me, careful not to let our fingers touch when she hands one over. Her deliberate distance tells me everything—she's as aware of the attraction between us as I am.
"Thanks."
She takes a sip and winces. "Damn. That could strip paint."
One corner of my mouth moves before I can stop it. "You wanted energy."
"Not rocket fuel." She blows across the surface, and I watch steam curl around her face. "I bake when I'm nervous. Do you have flour? Sugar? Anything I can throw in a bowl?"
My eyes narrow. "Nervous about what?"
She gestures vaguely. "Take your pick. Stranded with a stranger who hates me, my car buried in snow, the lack of cell service."
There's more she's not saying. She won't quite meet my eyes, her fingers tapping against the mug. But I don't push it.
“I don’t hate you,” I mutter, avoiding her gaze.
Hate is such a strong word.
I eye the storm still battering the windows. The snow's building against the glass in drifts. It’s clear we’re not getting out tomorrow either. "The cabinets above the sink have what you need; use what you want. Just… don't make a mess."
"I won’t. Scout's honor." She salutes, and the gesture brings back memories I really don’t want to resurface.
I turn away, leaving her to it.
She rummages through the cabinets like she's on a mission, pulling out jars with the kind of focus I usually reserve for hunting. Everything's labeled in here, and organized with military precision. Old habits die hard and all that.
"Red." She holds up the vanilla paste like she's found gold. "You have vanilla paste! The good stuff, too!"
I shrug. "I found it at the supply store last month."
What I don't say is, I bought it because Beth used to talk about it, saying real bakers always used paste, not extract. Thought maybe if I have the right ingredients, I could—
Fuck it, it doesn't matter. I don’t bake anymore.
"I'll bring in more wood," I say, already pulling on my gloves. "The storm's picking up; I might not get another chance."
She nods, already lost in flour.
Outside, the cold slaps me awake. Good. I need it.
I need the bite of wind, the burn in my lungs, the simple task of splitting wood and hauling it inside.
Things like that make sense to me. Things that don't involve curvy women in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, smelling like vanilla, and making my cabin feel all homey and shit.
I stack too much wood and carry more than I need. Anything to buy time before I go back inside and face whatever the hell is happening in there.
Twenty minutes later, I shoulder through the door with an armload of split logs. Snow dusts my beard and melts on my neck. I kick the door shut and the wood drops by the stove with a clatter.
"It's building fast out there," I say, shaking snow from my hair.
"Sounds miserable. Good thing you have excellent taste in baking supplies." She holds up the vanilla tin again, grinning. "Thanks for sharing your stash."
"Don't waste it,” I grumble, knowing I’m a miserable prick, but I’m unable to help it.
"Never." She licks batter from her knuckle, and my eyes lock on her mouth before I can stop them.
Desire hits me in my gut—and it’s unwelcome, unwanted, yet undeniable.
I look away fast, focusing on the woodpile like it’s mission critical. "Put a tray under the oven. It runs hot."
"See? You're a secret baker."
I screw up my face. "I'm not a baker."
But there's no heat to my words, and she knows it. Her smile says she's already figured me out, and that's dangerous. People who see through your defenses are the ones who hurt you worst.
While the first batch cooks, she whisks frosting in a metal bowl. The sound fills the cabin—domestic, normal, everything I told myself I didn't want.
Bear inches closer to her, nose twitching.
"Don't even think about it. You'll vibrate clean out of your skin." She laughs, fond and easy, like she's known him for years instead of hours.
"He's used to waiting," I say.
"Bless him."
She shivers, and my gaze flicks over her before I can stop it—she’s changed back into that short little Santa costume from yesterday, and it’s riding up her thighs, exposing her bare legs, leaving goose bumps on her skin. I snap my eyes back up fast enough to give myself whiplash.
"You're underdressed."
She huffs. "It’s all I have.”
I take a breath and force myself to count to ten. If I keep looking at her like this, she's going to notice, and if she notices, things will get complicated. "You can wear that sweater you got me if you’re cold.”
Her face lights up. "Thank you."
It's just a sweater, but I can’t help feeling a tinge of something soft and mushy at making her happy.
Fuck’s sake.
The oven timer dings. She pulls out a tray of golden cookies, and the smell hits me—cinnamon, butter, and sugar. Memories I've spent three years trying to bury.
Beth at twelve years old, flour in her hair, laughing at her lopsided turnovers.
My sister handing me a beer, saying, "She looks up to you, you know."
The phone call from overseas—the one that changed everything.