Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
COOKIE
The following morning slips in quietly. We've been snowed in for four days now. It feels strange—the silence. There’s no traffic or shouts from people going about their day. Just pale, cold light slipping around the curtains and Bear’s tail thumping the floor.
I’m warm under the quilt, still wearing his sweater, and I smell coffee before I open my eyes.
“Is that for me?” My vocal cords are still asleep.
“Yup. Sit up.” Red’s voice sounds low and scratchy. He’s by the bed, mug in hand, steam rising.
Coffee. The nectar of the gods. Even this sludge.
I push up on my elbows, hair a mess, my neck tilted at an angle no doubt. He hands me the mug, and his fingers brush mine.
I can’t help but gaze up at him, and what a sight he is.
“Thanks.” I wrap my hands around the mug. “If you tell me you baked fresh croissants, I’m proposing.”
“Nope.”
“Rude.” I inhale the coffee and give him a once-over. He’s showered—hair damp, in a clean shirt, with that cautious look back in place. His eyes linger on me for half a second, but I notice, and my heart does a stupid victory dance.
He turns away quickly. “The storm’s letting up, but the road’s still bad.”
Translation: I’m not going anywhere.
My stomach flips for reasons that have nothing to do with hunger pangs.
“Do you—” I stop because my brain tosses in images from last night.
How close we got in that bed.
I sip to buy some time. “Do you eat in the mornings? Or do you just brood until noon and call it intermittent fasting?”
“I like eggs.”
“Wild.” I slide off the bed and tug the sweater down over my bare thighs, before padding to the kitchen. “Let me cook. Payment for the coffee.”
He doesn’t argue, but his shoulders relax. The cabin soon smells like onion and butter, and pretty soon, I’m plating them up.
“It’s the moment of truth.” I set a fork in his hand and watch as he takes a bite, then he goes in for another.
“Good.”
I clutch my chest and gasp. “You flatterer!”
We eat at the table. Bear sprawls between us, his chin on my feet. Red’s quiet, but it isn’t the serious kind anymore—it’s nice.
I take a breath. “Can I ask you something? And you can tell me to mind my business.”
His eyes lift. “Ask.”
“Do you hate Christmas, or do you hate what it asks from people? The pretending and stuff.”
He looks at me for a long beat. “I don’t like crowds, and I don’t like noise.” He pauses. “I definitely don’t like pretending.”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “Same.”
He huffs quietly. “You don’t pretend?”
“I do.” The confession drops between us, and I feel his gaze on me. I stare at my plate. “I mean, I’m good at it. Being cheerful and making a joke before anyone else can.” I force a smile. “People see big smiles and big hips and decide I’m the entertainment. So, I am.”
Red doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He doesn’t pat my hand or tell me I’m wrong; he just watches me like only he can.
I keep going because if I stop, I’ll lose my nerve. “I want to open my own bakery, but every landlord who looks at me thinks the same thing: Sure, cupcake, good luck with that. It’s hard to be taken seriously when the world thinks you’re a joke.”
The Santa dress, the hat, and the stupid socks. My cheeks flame at how everyone sees me.
How Red must see me.
“It’s not just the world, either. Sometimes it’s me. I get loud and flirty, so no one has a chance to hurt me first.”
There. It’s out. My heart feels heavier than it did five minutes ago, my eyes are stinging, and I hate it, because I prefer humor—it doesn’t make you emotional.
Red sets his fork down. “People are idiots.”
I laugh. “It’s not a Hallmark card, but thanks.”
He shakes his head. “Since you’ve been here, you’ve cooked, cleaned, kept your head in a storm, and made the dog fall in love with you in twenty minutes.” He holds my gaze. “You’re not a joke.”
My throat swells, and I look away, blinking up at the ceiling until the prickle fades. “Okay, well, now I’m going to cry over eggs; how embarrassing.”
“You’re fine.” It’s quiet. “Eat.”
So, I do.
When the plates are empty and the coffee’s gone, I stack dishes at the sink and take a deep breath. It’s now or never. “Your turn.”
“My turn to what?”
“To say something true.” I glance at him over my shoulder. “You don’t have to dump your life story on me. Just one thing, so I’m not the only one out here baring all.”
My heart hammers in my chest. Typical Cookie, determined to get a reaction from the grumpy mountain man.
He leans back in his chair, his eyes on the window. Snow sifts off a branch and slides past the glass.
“I don’t sleep much. There’s too much noise in my head.”
I still. “From...?”
“Work.” He lifts one shoulder. “I did a job that didn’t end when I left it. Friends didn’t come home. Other people did, and they shouldn’t have.”
He doesn’t look at me, but that’s fine. I dry my hands on a towel and stay where I am, praying he continues.
The silence stretches, and I think that's all I'm getting. Then he speaks again, quieter.
"There was this kid. Martinez. He was only twenty-two, fresh out of training, scared shitless but trying not to show it." Red winces. "I was supposed to keep him alive. That was the job—get in, get intel, get everyone out."
He continues to stare at the window, but I don't think he's seeing snow anymore.
"I made the call. I told the team to move when I should've waited. Martinez went first." His hands curl into fists on his thighs. "He didn't make it ten feet."
My heart aches, but I don't interrupt.
"I got the rest of them out but brought Martinez home in a bag. His mom thanked me at the funeral." His voice goes flat. "She thanked me for bringing her son home."
He's quiet for so long I almost reach for him, but then he continues.
"So, I got out. I came back here, but the noise didn't stop. It just got a little quieter." His mouth tightens. "People make it louder. They want to know how you're doing, if you're okay, if you need anything. Like talking about it will fix what's broken."
He finally looks at me, and his eyes are raw. "I can't fix it—I can't bring him back or change the call I made. So, I stopped letting people ask."
My heart feels like it's being squeezed in a fist.
“Oh, Red,” I say.
He flicks his gaze to mine and finds me not flinching, not plastering a smile over it.
“Thanks for telling me. And for the eggs review. Very helpful for my growth.”
He huffs, almost a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“True.”
We spend the late morning moving around each other. He splits wood; I sweep flour ghosts off the floor and package the rest of the cookies. He checks the generator; I make more coffee and find a jar of honey in his pantry.
Bear follows me to the couch with a giant dog sigh. I comply because I’m a sucker for brown eyes and drool. Red fiddles with the radio—static, static, a burst of a country song, then more static. He gives up and tosses a blanket toward the couch.
“To stave off the cold.”
“Thank you.” I fling it over my lap.
The fire’s lazy now, burning low, and the couch dips under his weight when he drops beside me. He’s not too close, but my body notices the distance.
We don’t talk at first. I stroke Bear’s ears, while Red stares at the flames. The quiet pulls a different kind of truth out of me.
“I hate that outfit. The Santa dress.”
Sorry, Beth.
He looks over, his brows raised. “But you wore it anyway.”
“I said yes because Beth asked.” I wrinkle my nose. “It was stupid."
He says nothing for a few seconds, then, “You came up here in a storm to check on a stranger. That’s not stupid.”
I purse my lips, fighting a smile. “You’re going to ruin your reputation if you keep saying nice things.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“I’ll keep it between me and Bear.”
My knee shifts, brushing his thigh, but he doesn’t move away. The blanket slides, and I feel air against bare skin where the sweater rides up. I shiver.
Red notices. His hand moves slowly, resting on top of the blanket at my knee.
I stare at it, wondering what it means. He’s not being possessive or anything; he’s probably trying to keep me warm.
I can think of better ways.
I look at his hand, all big and calloused, studying the veins and the tiny scar across a knuckle.
His thumb strokes one line, back and forth, and every part of me pays rapt attention. My breathing goes from normal to not.
“Red.”
“Mm?”
“Am I scaring you?”
“You’re fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“It’s true.”
I swallow. “I haven’t—it’s been a while since… any of this.” My face goes hot. “You go on enough bad dates and start to think the problem is you.”
He turns toward me. “Who made you think that?”
I laugh without humor. “Oh, you know. The Internet. Exes. Aunt Carol at Thanksgiving.”
“Carol’s an idiot.”
“You haven’t even met Carol.”
“She’s still an idiot.”
It makes me smile because he means it.
I shrug. “I can give off this too-much vibe. I know I’m too loud, for example. Men like to tell you they want confidence until they meet a woman who has some.”
He studies me. “I don’t want you any less than you are.”
So, he wants me? Well, okay then.
I don’t know what to do with that fact, so I tuck my feet under me and fold into the couch more, turning to face him. The blanket slides again. His hand moves and ends up on the outside of my thigh, still over the blanket.
“Tell me to stop, Cookie.” His voice is raw and needy, and if he thinks I’m telling him to stop, he’s got another think coming.
“No,” I say quickly, then laugh at myself. “I mean, I’ll tell you if I want you to. But I don’t. Not right now.”
His hand slips under the blanket, letting his warm palm touch my bare skin.
My heart feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest and snuggle next to his; it’s so excited.
He waits a beat, then drags his hand from my knee to my mid-thigh and back, a patient stroke that makes me want to beg for more. The sweater hem is right there. If he pushes—
He doesn’t, though. He leans in slowly, watching my face. The heat from his body makes me suck in a breath.