Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
KELSIE
Iwake up disoriented in an unfamiliar room, surrounded by the scent of pine and something I can’t quite place.
For a moment, panic grips me until the events of last night come rushing back.
The broken heater. Tom. His surprisingly gentle insistence that I stay in his guest room rather than freeze to death in his rental cabin.
The morning light streams through curtains that have clearly never been changed since the house was built.
Everything in this room feels frozen in time, from the faded floral wallpaper to the antique dresser with mismatched knobs.
Nothing like the sterile, modern apartment I left behind in San Diego.
I stretch and grab my glasses from the nightstand, shoving them on my face before reaching for my laptop. The blank document titled "Chapter One" stares accusingly at me, the cursor blinking like a metronome counting the eight months I haven't written a single word.
"Just write something," I mutter to myself. "Anything. Even if it's garbage."
But my fingers hover motionless above the keyboard, paralyzed by the same creative block that's plagued me since the divorce. The voice in my head sounds suspiciously like Marcus, my ex husband slash former literary agent.
This smut you write is embarrassing. You have real talent. Why waste it on pornography for bored housewives?
I slam the laptop closed, my breathing too fast and shallow.
Three books published, all successful, and I still hear his voice critiquing every potential word.
The irony is, he's the one who first encouraged me to write romance.
Discovered me in his creative writing class, dated me, married me, represented me.
Then systematically tried to mold me into the kind of "literary" author he could brag about at cocktail parties.
The smell of coffee breaks through my spiraling thoughts. Real coffee, not the instant stuff I packed for my writing retreat. My stomach growls, reminding me I skipped dinner last night in the chaos of arriving early and dealing with the heating crisis.
I throw on my least embarrassing sweats and attempt to tame my curls into submission before venturing downstairs.
Tom’s house is larger than I expected, with high ceilings and beautiful woodwork that speaks of craftsmanship from another era.
It would be warm and inviting if not for the complete absence of personal touches.
No photos on the walls. No decorations. Nothing that would indicate Christmas is just weeks away.
I follow the coffee scent to a spacious kitchen that looks barely used. Tom stands with his back to me, uniform already on despite the early hour, methodically dropping bread into a toaster.
"Good morning," I say, wincing at how my voice carries in the quiet space.
He turns, coffee mug in hand, expression unreadable. "Morning. Coffee's fresh if you want some."
"God, yes. Please." I move toward the pot like it contains the elixir of life. "I'm completely useless without caffeine."
One corner of his mouth twitches upward, not quite a smile but the closest thing to it I've seen on his face. "Mugs in the cabinet above."
I pour myself a cup, adding a generous splash of cream from the carton he's left on the counter. When I take my first sip, I can't hold back an appreciative moan. "This is excellent coffee. Way better than what I packed."
"Property management checked the cabin heater this morning," he says, ignoring my coffee enthusiasm. "It needs a replacement part that won't arrive until next week. Maybe longer with the holiday shipping delays."
"Oh." The implications sink in. "So I'll need to find somewhere else to stay?"
"You can stay here until it's fixed." He says this while staring intently at his toast, as if it requires his full concentration. "Guest room's just sitting empty anyway."
"I couldn't impose like that," I protest, though the thought of having to find a hotel in this tiny mountain town feels overwhelming. "I'm sure there must be somewhere in town I could stay temporarily."
"Nearest hotel is thirty minutes away in good weather. Whisper Vale Inn closed for renovations last month." He finally looks at me. "It's no trouble. I'm barely home anyway."
Something about his gruff hospitality touches me. He clearly values his solitude, yet he's offering his space to a complete stranger. To his therapist's rambling, disorganized sister.
"Thank you. That's incredibly kind." I take another sip of coffee. "I promise I won't get in your way."
He grunts something that might be acknowledgment and slides a piece of toast with avocado slices toward me. "Eat. You look like you haven't had a proper meal in days."
I want to be offended, but he's not wrong. The divorce diet, as my friends in San Diego call it. Months of stress and creative frustration have whittled away at my usually healthy appetite.
"I was thinking of going into town today," I say, accepting the toast. "Is there a coffee shop where I can set up and work for a few hours? Sometimes a change of scenery helps me write."
"The Grind on Main Street. Decent coffee, good wifi." He rinses his mug in the sink. "I'm heading that way if you want a ride. Cabin's too far to walk in this weather."
"That would be great, actually." I glance down at my sweatpants. "Just give me fifteen minutes to get ready?"
He checks his watch. "I leave in ten."
I shovel the avocado toast into my mouth and bolt upstairs, throwing on the least wrinkled clothes I can find.
Jeans, a soft green sweater, boots that are more fashionable than practical for mountain weather.
I grab my laptop, notebooks, and the research books I'd carefully selected for this trip, stuffing everything into my oversized bag.
Nine minutes and forty seconds later, I'm standing by the front door, slightly breathless but ready. Tom raises an eyebrow, clearly having expected me to make him wait.
"What?" I adjust my glasses. "When someone says ten minutes, I assume they actually mean ten minutes."
"Most people don't," he says, opening the door for me.
The morning air steals my breath. San Diego has not prepared me for Nevada mountain temperatures in December.
Tom notices my reaction. "There's a spare coat in the hall closet if you need it."
"I'm fine," I lie, wrapping my arms around myself. "It's invigorating."
He gives me a look that clearly communicates he thinks I'm being ridiculous but fetches a coat anyway, holding it open for me. It's at least three sizes too big and smells like cedar.
"Thanks," I mumble, swimming in the oversized jacket but immediately grateful for its warmth.
His patrol SUV sits in the driveway, official and imposing. He opens the passenger door for me, another gesture that seems automatic rather than calculated to impress.
As we drive through the winding mountain roads toward town, I steal glances at his profile.
In the morning light, I notice details I missed last night.
The silver threading through his dark hair at the temples.
The lines around his eyes that speak of squinting into the sun.
The way his jaw seems permanently set in determination.
"How long have you been sheriff?" I ask, unable to bear the silence any longer.
"Twenty years as sheriff. Twenty-five with the department."
"Wow. So you must know everyone in town."
"It's a small town."
"Do you like it? Being sheriff, I mean."
He glances at me, then back at the road. "It's the job."
"That's not really an answer," I point out.
"It's the answer you're getting," he says, but without any real heat.
We lapse into silence again. Outside the window, the scenery is breathtaking. Pine trees dusted with frost, mountains rising majestically in the distance, an occasional cabin nestled in the woods like something from a holiday card.
"It's beautiful here," I say softly. "Peaceful."
"That why you came? For peace?"
Something in his tone tells me he's genuinely curious, not just making small talk. "Partly. Mostly I needed space to write. Away from distractions."
"What kind of distractions?"
"Ex husband. Career pressure. The usual." I fiddle with the zipper on my borrowed coat. "I haven't written anything substantial in eight months. My editor is threatening to drop me if I don't deliver something soon."
I'm not sure why I'm telling him this. Something about his silent presence makes it easy to fill the space with words, like pouring water into an empty vessel.
"Writer's block," he says, surprising me by acknowledging what I've shared.
"The worst case imaginable." I sigh dramatically. "Hence the last minute escape to the mountains. New surroundings. No pressure. Just me and my laptop and endless cups of coffee."
"And a broken heater," he adds dryly.
"And a broken heater," I agree with a laugh. "Plus an unexpected roommate."
"Temporary roommate," he corrects.
"Right. Temporary." For some reason, the clarification stings a little.
We reach town, a charming main street lined with shops decorated for the holidays. Christmas lights twinkle from every storefront. A massive pine tree stands in the town square, waiting to be decorated for what I assume is an upcoming tree lighting ceremony.
"Whisper Vale goes all out for Christmas," I observe.
"They do." His tone is flat, almost dismissive.
"Not a fan of the holidays?"
"Not particularly."
Before I can probe further, he pulls up in front of a cozy looking coffee shop with a hand painted sign reading "The Grind."
"I'll be at the station." He nods toward a building down the street with the sheriff's department logo. "Text when you're ready to head back. If I can't get away, I'll have a deputy drive you."
"I can call a rideshare," I offer.
He actually laughs at that, a short bark of sound that transforms his face momentarily. "No rideshares in Whisper Vale. No taxis either. Just neighbors helping neighbors."
"Right. Small town." I gather my bag. "Thank you for the ride. And for letting me stay. And for the coffee this morning. And the coat. And, well, everything."
He nods once, waiting until I'm safely inside The Grind before pulling away.
The coffee shop is warm and inviting, with mismatched furniture and the rich aroma of freshly ground beans. I order a large latte and claim a small table by the window, spreading out my materials with the focused intention of a general planning a battle.
I open my laptop, willing the blank document to transform into something worth reading. For an hour I type and delete, type and delete, trying to find my voice. The voice that once came so naturally before Marcus got into my head.
This is smut, Kelsie. You're better than this. Write something that matters.
But romance does matter. My books made readers happy. They sent me letters about how my stories helped them through difficult times, gave them hope, made them feel seen. Why had I let Marcus convince me that wasn't enough?
"You must be new in town."
I look up to find a pretty blonde woman about my age standing beside my table, coffeepot in hand.
"That obvious, huh?" I push my glasses up my nose.
"Small town." She smiles, gesturing to my empty mug. "Refill? On the house for newcomers."
"That would be amazing, thank you." I push the mug toward her. "I'm Kelsie. Kelsie Walsh. I'm staying at Sheriff Parker's rental cabin."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Sheriff Parker's cabin? Really? I'm Sylvie, by the way. Friend of his daughter's."
"He has a daughter?" I realize how little I actually know about the man whose guest room I'm occupying.
"Savannah. Just got married a few months back to Colt Reeves." She leans in conspiratorially. "Big scandal at the time. The sheriff and Colt didn't exactly get along. But they're working on it."
"Interesting." I file this information away. "Actually, the cabin heater broke, so I'm staying in his guest room temporarily."
Sylvie nearly drops the coffeepot. "You're staying in Sheriff Parker's house? As in, actually living with him?"
"Just until the heater's fixed," I clarify, uncomfortable with her wide-eyed reaction. "It's not a big deal."
"Honey, Tom Parker hasn't let anyone into that house except Savannah since his wife left sixteen years ago." She sets the coffeepot down, fully committed to this conversation now. "It's absolutely a big deal."
"Sixteen years?" I repeat, stunned. "His wife left sixteen years ago?"
"Two weeks before Christmas," Sylvie confirms with a nod. "Packed up and disappeared while he was working a double shift. Left him with eight-year-old Savannah and a note saying she 'couldn't do this life anymore.'"
My heart constricts at the thought. No wonder the house feels frozen in time. No wonder he seems so closed off.
"Don't tell him I told you," Sylvie adds hurriedly. "He's intensely private about it all. Most people in town know better than to mention it. Or Christmas. Or relationships. Or emotions in general."
"I won't say anything," I promise, mind racing with this new context.
She squeezes my shoulder before moving to serve other customers, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Sheriff Tom Parker. Abandoned by his wife two weeks before Christmas. Raised his daughter alone. Hasn't let anyone into his home in sixteen years.
Until me.
I look down at my blank document, then out the window toward the sheriff's station. For the first time in eight months, words begin to flow. Not the book my editor is expecting. Not the literary fiction Marcus wanted me to write.
Something new. Something about a grumpy sheriff with walls around his heart and the sunshine he never expected to break through them.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, the cursor finally moving forward instead of deleting. By the time I text Tom hours later, I've written more than I have in months.
Maybe Whisper Vale is exactly what I needed after all.