Chapter 2 #2
The words hit me harder than they should.
I clear my throat. “Truck’s this way.”
We walk through the snow toward the parking area. I keep her backpack in my hand. I keep my body positioned slightly between her and the crowd, not obvious, just instinct.
She clutches the flowers like they’re proof this is real.
My truck sits at the edge of the lot. I open the passenger door for her before I can stop myself.
She hesitates.
Her gaze flicks to the seat, then to me, then to the trees. Like she’s measuring risk.
I wait.
Finally, she climbs in, careful with her purse and the bouquet. I shut the door, walk around, toss her backpack behind the seat, and get in.
The engine rumbles to life.
Warm air starts to creep through the vents.
She rubs her hands together, staring out the windshield like she’s watching for danger to appear.
I don’t ask questions.
Not yet.
I just drive.
The drive is short, but the road narrows fast, snow packed hard beneath the tires. Pines crowd in close, branches heavy with white, and the town lights disappear behind us like someone dimmed them on purpose.
She breathes a little easier with every minute.
I notice.
I don’t comment.
My cabin comes into view through the trees, tucked just far enough off the main road to feel like my own world. Snow piles on the roof.
I park, kill the engine, and for a second we sit in the silence.
She looks at the cabin like it might be a sanctuary.
Or a trap.
I reach for her backpack, then pause. “You good?”
Her eyes meet mine. Green, wide, uncertain.
She nods.
Not convincing.
But it’s what she can offer.
I get out, walk around, and open her door. She steps down into the snow, bouquet tucked against her chest. I take her backpack. She adjusts her purse strap like it weighs a hundred pounds.
We crunch up to the porch.
The second I open the door, a blur of fur rockets toward us.
Nugget hits the entryway like a cannonball, nails skittering, tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggles.
He barks once, sharp, then stops dead when he sees her.
His head tilts.
His ears perk.
Then he trots right up to her boots and sniffs like he’s conducting an investigation.
She freezes.
I watch her shoulders go rigid like she’s bracing for a bite.
Nugget sneezes, then presses his nose against her leg and wags harder.
Her breath escapes in a shaky laugh.
I bend down and scoop him up.
The moment Nugget is in my arms, something in me changes. I feel it. My whole face softens before I can stop it, because this dog has been my only constant for the past couple of months, and he loves me like it’s his job.
Nugget licks my jaw.
Nova stares.
She looks genuinely surprised, like she expected me to be a robot made of scowls.
I clear my throat and set Nugget down. He immediately zooms into the living room like he’s showing off the place.
I step inside and gesture vaguely. “This is it.”
The cabin is simple. One bedroom. One bathroom.
A small room Nugget has claimed as his own, mostly because he’s a menace and likes having a space to stash stolen socks.
Living room with a couch, two recliners, a fireplace that’s been the difference between comfort and freezing more times than I can count.
A small kitchen off to the side, functional, not fancy.
She turns slowly, taking it in. Her shoulders drop another fraction.
Good.
I set her backpack near the couch, then look at her. “You won a weekend here. You take the bedroom.”
Her eyes widen. “No, I can take the couch.”
“It’s not a discussion,” I say, then soften it because her flinch is immediate. “You take the bed. I’m fine on the couch.”
She hesitates, then nods slowly, like she’s filing it away under “unexpected kindness” and doesn’t know what to do with it.
She hugs the bouquet closer, then glances at the hallway that leads to the bedroom and bathroom.
“Can I,” she starts, then clears her throat. “Can I take a shower?”
I should say yes and keep it normal.
“Yeah,” I answer, voice steady.
But my brain does not stay steady.
Because my imagination is a traitor.
It immediately paints her in steam and warm water, hair damp and curling, freckles darker against flushed skin. It paints her shoulders bare. It paints her mouth parted. It paints the kind of softness I told myself I don’t deserve.
Heat spreads low in my gut, sudden and unwelcome.
I clench my jaw and force my gaze away before she can see anything on my face.
“Bathroom’s through there,” I say, pointing. “You’ll find clean towels in the drawer.”
She nods and kicks off her boots, a little clumsy like her legs are finally admitting they’re tired.
She sets her purse down, shrugs out of her coat next, hanging it on the hook by the door with careful hands, then turns and sets the flowers down gently.
Then she slips her purse back onto her shoulder and heads down the hall.
The bathroom door clicks shut.
I stand in my living room with a dog at my feet and my cabin suddenly full of a woman I can’t stop thinking about.