Chapter 2 – Corey
I should check the alarm panel in ten minutes.
That's what I tell myself as I settle deeper into the leather chair, watching Miranda curl her legs beneath her. The fire crackles between us, casting golden light across her face, and I realize I haven't thought about the reset protocol once in the last five minutes.
She's still shivering slightly, wet sweater clinging to curves that make my mouth go dry, and I stand before I can overthink it. "You need another blanket."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not fine. You're cold and wet, and hypothermia isn't worth being polite about."
There's a basket of throws near the front desk, thick wool in deep greens and burgundies that smell faintly of cedar. I grab the softest one and bring it back to her, trying not to notice the way her breath catches when I drape it around her shoulders.
"Thank you." Her voice is quiet.
She burrows into the blanket until only her face shows, cheeks pink from heat and embarrassment.
"Better?" I ask, settling back into my chair.
She nods, pulling the blanket tighter. "Much. Though I'm pretty sure I've officially earned the title of 'worst guest in Snowcap Inn history.'"
"Doubtful. I'm sure they’ve seen worse."
"Worse than flooding the hallways because I burned milk?"
I think about the bachelor party that set off firecrackers in the courtyard last summer, or the wedding party that tried to deep-fry a turkey in one of the guest rooms. "Trust me, you're not even close."
That earns me a small smile, and I feel ridiculously pleased with myself for putting it there.
The lobby has settled into the kind of quiet that only comes late at night, when the world feels smaller and secrets come easier. Snow taps against the windows in soft whispers, and the fire pops and hisses.
It feels intimate in a way that makes me hyperaware of everything—the way Miranda's breathing has steadied, the way her hair is starting to curl as it dries, the way she keeps glancing at me like she's trying to figure out if I'm real.
"Can I ask you something?" she says, pulling her knees up to her chest inside the blanket cocoon.
"Sure."
"Do you always stay this long for false alarms?"
The honest answer is no. The honest answer is that I usually check the system, confirm there's no actual emergency, and get back to the station within twenty minutes.
The honest answer is that I've been looking for excuses to stay since the moment I walked into her room and saw her standing there, soaked and flustered and more beautiful than she has any right to be.
"The system needs time to cycle through the reset," I say instead, which is technically true. "I need to make sure everything's working properly before I can clear the call."
She nods like this makes perfect sense, but there's something knowing in her eyes that suggests she sees right through me.
"Besides," I add, because apparently I can't leave well enough alone, "you looked like you could use some company."
"Was it that obvious?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I'm usually better at pretending I have my life together."
"What makes you think you need to pretend?"
The question surprises her, I can see it in the way her eyebrows lift, the way she tilts her head like she's never considered that she might not have to perform composure for everyone she meets.
"I don't know," she says slowly. "I guess I'm just used to being... a lot. Taking up too much space, feeling too much, wanting too much. It's easier to keep moving than to stay somewhere long enough for people to realize I'm more than they bargained for."
I want to ask who taught her to think of herself that way, want to find them and explain a few things about what happens when you make someone like Miranda feel unwelcome in her own skin.
Instead, I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and meet her eyes in the firelight.
"For what it's worth," I say, "I don't think you're too much of anything."
She stares at me for a long moment, like she's waiting for the punchline or the caveat or the gentle letdown that probably comes after most compliments in her experience.
When none comes, something shifts in her expression, surprise giving way to something softer.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I find myself cataloging details I have no business noticing, like the way her bottom lip is slightly fuller than the top, the way she has a small scar near her left eyebrow, the way her hands are delicate despite the calluses that suggest she works with them.
"What about you?" she asks, breaking the spell. "Do you always rescue damsels in distress, or am I special?"
There's teasing in her voice, but underneath it is a genuine question, and I realize she's trying to figure out if this connection I'm feeling is real or just my standard bedside manner.
"I don't really do the rescue thing," I admit. "At least, not the personal kind."
"What does that mean?"
I lean back in my chair, trying to find words for something I've never had to explain before. "I show up, I do the job, I go home. I don't get involved in people's lives, don't stick around to see what happens after the crisis passes. It's easier that way."
"Easier how?"
"Safer." The word slips out before I can stop it, more honest than I intended to be.
She studies my face in the firelight.
"You've been hurt," she says quietly. It's not a question.
"Haven't we all?"
"Some of us more than others."
She's right, and the gentle way she says it tells me she recognizes the particular brand of caution that comes from having your heart handed back to you in pieces.
"I was engaged," I hear myself say. "A few years ago. She left."
"I'm sorry."
"It's fine. Ancient history."
"Is it?"
The question hangs between us, gentle but persistent, and I realize that no, it's not fine, not in the way that matters.
"I learned not to get attached to temporary things," I say finally.
Miranda nods like she understands, and maybe she does. Maybe she's learned her own version of the same lesson, that being wanted is different from being chosen, that some people will take what you offer and move on without looking back.
"So you stick to the job," she says. "Keep it professional. Don't let anyone get too close."
"Something like that."
"Sounds lonely."
"Sounds safe."
She considers this, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "I do the opposite, I think. I keep moving so I never have to find out if someone would choose me or just tolerate me until I leave on my own."
"And how's that working out for you?"
She laughs, and this time there's real humor in it. "About as well as you'd expect from someone who sets off fire alarms making cocoa."
The shared acknowledgment of our respective defense mechanisms should feel heavy, but somehow it doesn't. If anything, it feels like relief, two people recognizing each other across the space between their respective forms of self-protection.
"There are cookies," I say, nodding toward the plate left on the side table. "Might help with the sugar crash from all that adrenaline."
Miranda unfolds herself from the blanket cocoon and reaches for the plate, her fingers brushing mine as she takes it. The contact is brief, accidental, but it sends heat up my arm and settles somewhere low in my belly.
"Sugar cookies," she observes, like we didn't just have a moment that made the air between us thicken.
Miranda takes a bite and closes her eyes, making a small sound of appreciation that does absolutely nothing good for my ability to think clearly. "Oh my god, that's incredible."
"Right? I may have responded to more calls here than strictly necessary over the years."
She laughs, and the sound is warm and genuine, filling the space between us with something lighter than the heavy confessions we've been trading. "So you're saying I'm not your first Snowcap Inn emergency?"
"Not even close. Though you're definitely the most memorable."
The words slip out before I can filter them, loaded with meaning, and I watch her cheeks flush pink in the firelight.
"Because of the property damage?" she asks, but there's something hopeful in her voice that suggests she knows that's not what I meant.
"Because of a lot of things."
We're sitting closer now, I realize. Somehow during the conversation our chairs have migrated toward each other, or maybe we've both been leaning in without thinking about it.
Her knees are almost touching mine under the small table between us, and I can smell her floral smell.
She takes another bite of cookie, and a small crumb sticks to her bottom lip. Without thinking, I reach out and brush it away with my thumb, the contact soft and warm and so much more intimate than it has any right to be.
Time slows. Her lips part slightly under the gentle pressure of my thumb, and her eyes go wide and dark in the firelight.
I should pull my hand back, should apologize for overstepping, should remember all the reasons why getting involved with a woman who's leaving tomorrow is exactly the kind of mistake I've spent years learning not to make.
But, I let my thumb trace the curve of her lower lip, soft and warm and perfect, and watch her breathing go shallow.
"Corey," she whispers, and my name in her voice sounds like a question and a prayer and a warning all at once.
"I know," I say, though I'm not sure what I'm acknowledging. That this is complicated? That she's leaving? That I don't do temporary, and she doesn't do permanent, and we're both about to ignore every lesson we've learned about protecting ourselves?
Her tongue darts out to wet her lip, and the brief contact with my thumb sends electricity straight through me.
I should move. Should check the alarm system. Should remember that I'm on duty and she's a guest and this is exactly the kind of situation that ends with someone getting hurt.
But her eyes are so blue in the firelight, and she's looking at me like I'm something precious instead of something convenient, and for the first time in years I want to believe that maybe some things are worth the risk.
"The system should be reset by now," I say, but I don't move to check it.
"Should you go verify that?" she asks, but she doesn't pull away from my touch.
"Probably."
Neither of us moves. The fire crackles between us, and snow continues its soft percussion against the windows, and I can hear my own heartbeat in the silence that stretches between what we should do and what we want to do.
Reluctantly I let my hand fall back to my lap, though I can still feel the warmth of her skin on my fingertips.
"I should check the panel," I say, and this time I mean it.
"Of course."
But as I stand and walk toward the front desk where the alarm controls wait, I can feel her eyes following me, and I know with absolute certainty that whatever just happened between us is nowhere near finished.
The system has indeed reset itself, all lights green, all sensors clear. Everything is functioning exactly as it should be. I radio the station to confirm the all-clear, sign the incident report, and officially close the call.
I have no reason to stay.
No reason except the woman sitting by the fireplace, wrapped in wool and vulnerability, looking at me like I might be the answer to a question she's been afraid to ask.
When I turn back toward her, she's watching me.
"All clear?" she asks.
"All clear."
"So you can go now."
"I can."
But I don't. Instead, I find myself walking back to the seating area, drawn by the pull of unfinished conversations and the way she looks in the firelight.
"Miranda," I start, then stop, because I don't know how to finish that sentence. Don't know how to ask if she feels this too, this magnetic pull that's making me question every rule I've made about keeping my distance.
"I know," she says again, and this time I think she really does know.
The smart thing would be to say goodnight. Walk away. Let this stay in the category of "interesting encounter" instead of pushing it into territory that could leave us both wounded.
But standing here, looking at her in the golden glow of Christmas lights and firelight, I realize I've never been particularly interested in the smart thing.
And judging by the way she's looking at me… neither has she.