Chapter 6 – Corey
"Miranda, wait."
She doesn't turn around, just fumbles with her key fob like it holds the secret to escape. Her shoulders are tense beneath her blue sweater, and I can see her hands shaking from here.
"I need to go," she says to her car door, voice controlled. "I have a cabin reserved, and I've already changed my plans once."
"Look at me."
"Corey—"
"Please."
The single word stops her, key halfway to the lock. She doesn't turn, but her shoulders drop slightly, some of the rigid control leaving her posture.
"This morning was my fault," I say, walking closer but not close enough to crowd her. "I was so worried about coming on too strong that I went the other direction. Made you think I wanted you gone."
"Didn't you?" She turns then, and the mask she's been wearing slips enough for me to see the hurt underneath. "You kept checking your watch, making polite conversation like we were strangers. I got the message."
"The message was wrong."
"Was it? Because it felt pretty clear to me. Guy gets what he wants, morning comes, time to move along. I've seen this movie before, Corey. I know how it ends."
The pain in her voice hits me like a punch to the chest. "Who hurt you like that?"
"Does it matter? The point is, I should have known better. Should have stuck to my original plan instead of letting myself believe—" She stops, shaking her head. "Never mind."
"Believe what?"
"That maybe this time was different. That maybe I was worth more than one night."
The quiet way she says it, like it's a simple fact rather than something that should make me want to find every person who made her feel disposable and explain a few things about treating someone like Miranda with anything less than reverence.
"You are worth more," I say, stepping closer. "You're worth everything."
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Right. That's why you were so eager to get rid of me this morning."
"I wasn't trying to get rid of you. I was trying not to beg you to stay."
That stops her. She blinks at me, confusion flickering across her face.
"What?"
"I wanted to ask you to cancel your cabin reservation.
Wanted to suggest you extend your stay at the inn.
Wanted to say fuck your original plans, spend Christmas with me instead.
" I run a hand through my hair, frustrated with my own cowardice.
"But I thought that was too much, too fast. Thought I'd scare you off if I admitted how much I wanted you to stay. "
"You wanted me to stay?"
"Miranda." I step closer again, close enough to see the snow starting to catch in her hair, close enough to smell her shampoo.
"I woke up this morning with you curled against me, and for about thirty minutes I let myself imagine what it would be like if that became normal.
If I got to wake up next to you every day, if I got to watch you make cocoa without setting off fire alarms, if I got to learn all the little things about you that take time to discover. "
Her eyes widen, and I see hope warring with disbelief in her expression.
"But then reality kicked in," I continue. "You're leaving. You have a life somewhere else, an established career, a whole world that doesn't include small-town Montana. And I'm just a firefighter who's never lived anywhere but Hope Peak."
"Just a firefighter?"
"You know what I mean. You could have anyone, go anywhere. Why would you want to stay here with me?"
She stares at me for a long moment, snow settling on her shoulders like a shawl. "Is that really what you think? That I'm some sophisticated woman who's too good for this place?"
"Aren't you?"
"Corey, I set off a fire alarm making hot chocolate.
I cried in a hotel lobby because my relatives think I'm a disappointment.
I spend most of my time alone in hotel rooms, working on presentations for people who see me as a temporary solution to their problems." She shakes her head.
"I'm not sophisticated. I'm just lonely. "
The word hangs between us, simple and devastating.
"You don't have to be," I say quietly.
"Don't I? Because that's what I am, everywhere I go. The woman who's fine for now, good enough for tonight, but not someone you build a life with."
"Says who?"
"Says everyone who's ever known me long enough to get bored."
"Then they were idiots."
She looks up at me, and I can see tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. "Were they? Because this morning, sitting across from you at breakfast, it felt like you were already looking for the exit."
"I was looking for courage."
"For what?"
"To tell you that last night wasn't just sex for me. That waking up with you felt like coming home. That I know it's crazy and fast and probably stupid, but I want to try anyway."
The tears spill over then, tracking down her cheeks in the cold air. "Corey—"
"I don't care that we just met. I don't care that this is happening too fast. I don't care that you live out of hotel rooms and I've never left Montana.
" I reach up to brush the tears from her face with my thumbs.
"What I care about is that you make me laugh.
That you're brave enough to travel alone but still kind enough to worry about inconveniencing strangers.
That you feel like home in a way I didn't think was possible. "
"That's not—"
"That's not what?" I cup her face in both hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. "Not realistic? Not practical? Not the way things work in the real world?"
"All of those things."
"Maybe. But maybe sometimes the real world gets it wrong."
She stares up at me, and I can see her wrestling with herself, hope and fear battling for control.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying don't go to that cabin. Don't spend Christmas alone when you could spend it with me. Don't run away from something that could be incredible just because it's scary."
"And then what? I extend my stay at the inn for a few more days, we have some more great sex, and then reality sets in? I have to go back to my real life eventually, Corey."
"Do you?"
The question surprises her. "What do you mean?"
"You said yourself your job is remote. You can work from anywhere. So why does anywhere have to be alone in hotel rooms?"
"Because that's how I've always done it."
"That's not a reason. That's just habit."
She's quiet for a long moment, studying my face like she's trying to decide whether to trust me. Snow falls around us, muffling the sounds of the awakening town, creating a pocket of intimacy in the middle of the parking lot.
"You're asking me to change my entire life for someone I just met," she says finally.
"I'm asking you to consider that maybe the life you've been living isn't the one you actually want."
"And you know what I want?"
"I know you light up when you laugh. I know you're tired of being alone. I know you spent last night in my arms like you belonged there, and I know you're terrified of admitting that maybe you did."
She takes a shaky breath. "This is insane."
"Yeah."
"We could crash and burn spectacularly."
"We could. Or we could be happy."
"You don't know that."
"No," I agree. "But I know I want to find out. And I think— I hope you do too."
She's quiet again, and I can practically see her thinking, weighing pros and cons, trying to logic her way through something that defies logic.
"What would it look like?" she asks finally. "If I stayed."
"However you want it to look. You could keep the room at the inn while we figure things out. Or there's a furnished apartment above the bookstore that comes available next month. Or..." I take a deep breath, knowing I'm about to jump off a cliff. "Or you could stay with me."
Her eyes widen. "At your house?"
"It's not much. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, needs some work. But it's got a decent kitchen, assuming you want to try making cocoa again. Good internet for work. And it's mine, which means no one's going to judge you for taking up space."
"You'd want that? A virtual stranger moving in with you?"
"You're not a stranger. Not anymore."
"Corey—"
"I love the way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking.
I love that you apologize for things that aren't your fault.
I love that you're brave enough to change your plans when something better comes along, even when it scares you.
" I lean down, close enough that our foreheads almost touch.
"I love that you're considering this at all, even though it's crazy. "
"It is crazy."
"The best things usually are."
She searches my face, looking for something—doubt, maybe, or signs that I'm not as certain as I sound.
But I am certain, with a clarity that surprises me. This woman, this moment, this possibility… it's worth the risk.
"I'm scared," she whispers.
"So am I."
"What if we're wrong? What if this is just Christmas magic and good sex?"
"Then we'll figure that out together."
"And if it's more?"
"Then we'll figure that out too."
She's quiet for another moment, and then she's rising on her toes and kissing me. It's soft and desperate and full of everything we haven't said yet, and I kiss her back with all the certainty I can't quite put into words.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Okay," she says, so quietly I almost miss it.
"Okay?"
"Let's try. Let's be crazy together and see what happens."
The smile that spreads across my face feels like it might crack my cheeks. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She laughs, and the sound is bright and free and everything I want to hear for the rest of my life. "But I'm keeping the cabin reservation for one more night. Just in case."
"Just in case what?"
"Just in case you change your mind when you realize what you're getting into."
I kiss her again, harder this time, until she's clinging to my jacket and making small sounds against my mouth that go straight to my blood.
"I'm not changing my mind," I murmur against her lips. "Are you?"
"Ask me again tomorrow."
"I will. And the day after that, and the day after that, until you stop looking for the exit."
"That might take a while."
"I've got time."
She looks up at me, snow melting in her hair, cheeks flushed with cold and something that looks like happiness.
"So what now?"
"Now we go back to the inn. You cancel your checkout. We call the cabin and explain there's been a change of plans."
"And then?"
"Then we have Christmas together. Really together, without watching the clock or worrying about what comes next."
"That sounds perfect."
"Come on." I take her hand, interlacing our fingers. "Let's go home."
We walk back toward the inn through falling snow, and when she squeezes my hand, I know I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
The lobby is warm and welcoming when we push through the front door, shaking snow from our coats. The front desk lady looks up from the front desk with a knowing smile.
"Well, well," she says. "Look what the snow dragged in."
"Good morning," I say, not letting go of Miranda's hand. "I think there might be a change to the checkout situation."
"Is that so?" She looks between us with satisfaction. "I suppose that means we'll be seeing more of both of you?"
"Much more," Miranda says, and the certainty in her voice makes my chest warm.
"Wonderful. I'll just cancel that checkout, shall I? Room twelve is yours for as long as you need it."
"Actually," I say, surprising myself with my own boldness. "She might not need it much longer."
Miranda looks up at me with raised eyebrows, but she's smiling.
"Oh my," she says with delight. "How lovely."
We're in the elevator before I realize what I've just implied, what I've committed us to in front of witnesses. But when I look down at Miranda, she's still smiling.
"Your place, huh?" she says as the doors close behind us.
"If you want. No pressure. We can take it slow, figure things out—"
She cuts me off with a kiss that makes my knees weak and my brain stop working entirely. When she pulls back, her eyes are dark with promise.
"Corey?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm done taking it slow."
The elevator dings at the fourth floor, and we stumble out together, hands already reaching for each other. Her room is at the end of the hall, and we barely make it inside before I'm pressing her against the closed door, kissing her like she might disappear if I stop.
"Are you sure about this?" I ask against her mouth, even as my hands slide up her sides, reacquainting themselves with the soft curves I've been thinking about all morning.
"I'm sure about you," she says, and that's all I need to hear.
The door clicks shut behind us, and we're finally, completely alone.