Chapter 3
Lila
For a long, aching moment, the only sounds are the fire popping and the wind nudging at the windows.
Then I remember how to breathe.
Smokey squirms in my arms, and I crouch to set him down. My hands are unsteady, and it has nothing to do with the cold.
Holt Weston is standing in my cabin.
Of course, he had to be the one to find me.
Of course, the universe couldn’t resist that little joke.
The last time I saw him, I swore that would be it. If fate ever put me in front of him again, I’d walk the other way.
But here he is—all big-shouldered, dark eyes burning into mine, like the last five years never happened.
Firelight shivers along the walls, pulling up old memories I thought I’d buried for good.
I tell myself to move, to speak, to do literally anything except stand there like someone unplugged my brain. Instead, I listen to the crackle and snap of the fire.
He still hasn’t said a word.
Typical.
He never needed many. One look from him used to take me apart, and apparently nothing’s changed.
I turn away first, pick up a poker and fuss at the fire. The dogs twitch in their sleep, the cat curls tighter on the rug. Ordinary life—and none of it feels real with him standing there.
“What brought you back here, Lila?”
The question is so sudden, so direct after the quiet that I flinch. The poker clatters against the grate.
I straighten, dust my hands on my jeans. “Pet-sitting.”
“For Heather.”
“Right. She and her family are in Florida for the holidays. You know her?”
He shrugs. “Pretty much my nearest neighbor.”
He studies me for a long moment, like he’s hearing everything I’m not saying—that I didn’t have anywhere else to be, that coming back here wasn’t part of the plan.
“Lucky she kept in touch with you,” he says quietly.
It’s such a simple sentence, but the weight of it lands right in my chest.
“I guess.” I glance around the chaos in the cabin—the shedding dogs, the heap of muddy boots, the old blankets piled on the sofa. “Guess I was overdue for some excitement.”
A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “Would look better with some Christmas decorations up.”
I snort. “Never been one for Christmas, really. You know my parents.”
A shadow crosses his face. “Too busy fighting?”
“Yup.”
And now?”
“Dad died of a heart attack. Mom remarried. She and her new husband have gone away for the holidays.”
“I’m sorry, Lila.”
“It’s fine.”
I turn away before my face betrays me. He doesn’t get to be the one who comforts me now.
I head to the kitchen, mainly to put some distance between us.
“You want a drink?” I ask over my shoulder.
“If you’re having one?”
“Sure.”
I flick on the kettle and stare out at the dark window while it heats.
Why the heck did I offer him a drink? Having him in this little space is killing me.
I can feel him behind me — that solid heat, that presence that fills a room—and the memory slams back before I can shut it out.
That night.
The air heavy with damp pine. His breath on my neck. His hands on my hips, slow and sure, pulling me in until my knees went loose.
He smelled like earth and smoke and something that turned every thought into heat.
He pushed my back against that tree like he couldn’t get close enough, and for one insane moment, I believed he wanted me—really wanted me—the way I’d wanted him for years.
I was shaking. Ready. More than ready. I would’ve given him anything he asked for.
And then—
just when I thought he was going to take me into his arms, into his life—
he stepped away.
No explanation.
No apology.
Just left me there, alone in the dark, breathing hard, my whole body lit up like a live wire.
The kettle clicks off. I open my eyes to my own reflection in the dark glass, flushed and furious that I can still feel him.
I grab two mugs from the cupboard and pour the cocoa too fast, so it slops over the rim. My hands are shaking. Ridiculous. All this time later, and it still hurts like crazy.
When I turn, he’s closer than before—standing by the counter, silent, eyes searching my face like he’s trying to read my thoughts.
“Here,” I say, too brisk, shoving the mug toward him. “Cocoa. It’s all I’ve got.”
“Perfect.” His voice is low. Familiar in a way that makes something inside me twist.
I set my own cup down hard. “Is it?”
He blinks. “What?”
“You don’t get to—” I stop myself. My pulse is pounding, and there’s no way I’m finishing that sentence.
You’re just perfect.
That’s what he whispered against my neck that night—
And then it turned out that he didn’t want me at all.
“What were you doing over here in the middle of a storm?” I demand.
“Heather asked me to check in on you. Wanted to make sure you were safe inside.”
I frown. “She did?”
“Yup. Didn’t know it was you though.”
“She didn’t mention my name?” I rack my brains, wondering if I ever mentioned Holt to her. Probably not. I would’ve kept my night of humiliation to myself.
“Just said an old friend.”
Typical Heather. Always light on the details.
“How close are you exactly?” I say, thinking that I didn’t see any other properties when I drove in.
He thumbs over his shoulder. “Over on the next ridge.”
Oh, so only technically a neighbor.
“Kinda isolated out here,” he says, as if he read my thoughts.
“Yeah…” I trail off, wondering just how bad it would be if I got snowed in here.
“Do the ponies need checking on?”
I go still. “Ponies? She didn’t tell me anything about ponies.”
He lifts his head like he’s sniffing the air. “Pretty sure there’s a couple at least. In the stable out back.”
“Huh?” I snatch up the note Heather left me. I stopped reading when I got to the bit about Smokey.
“Please make sure the ponies have fresh water and a couple of good wedges of hay morning and evening, and that the stable door’s latched at night.
If the weather’s bad, they’ll stay in—just muck out once a day and add clean straw.
There’s a small feed bucket for each of them—check the hooks by the door for their nosebags and give them a scoop of pony nuts before bed. ”
Oh, God.
I lower the note slowly. “Nosebags?”
Holt’s watching me again, clearly entertained. “Feed bags. You hang them around their heads.”
“Of course you do.” I rub my forehead. “I’m so qualified for this job.”
He leans against the counter, arms folded, that tiny ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Want a hand?”
“Nope. I can handle a couple of ponies.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
Five minutes later, we’re battling through the snow, the wind slicing straight through my coat. The beam from my phone gives me barely three feet of visibility. Holt walks ahead of me with the same approach he uses for everything—solid, capable, annoyingly unbothered.
“Stay close,” he calls back.
I mutter something unflattering, but the wind steals it.
Inside the stable, the smell of warm hay and horse hits me like a blanket.
Two shaggy shapes peer over their stalls, ears flicking, breath puffing into the cold.
They let out twin snorts when the light hits them.
One is the color of gingerbread, the other a mottled gray, both round as barrels and shaggy enough to survive an ice age.
“Oh,” I breathe, stepping closer. “They’re actually… adorable.”
Holt chuckles under his breath. “See, it could be worse.”
I glance back at him, the beam of my flashlight catching his face—the faint grin, the damp curls sticking to his forehead. My stomach does something stupid and traitorous.
“Right,” I mutter, setting to work. “Water, hay, muck out, feed. How hard can it be?”
He doesn’t answer, just watches as I wrestle with the gate latch and nearly fall into the straw.
“You can laugh,” I warn. “But if I go down, tell Heather I died bravely.”
He shakes his head, stepping forward. “Here. Let me.”
Our hands brush on the latch, a spark in the cold. He opens it easily, stepping aside for me to pass.
The ponies stretch their necks toward us, curious, their breath misting in the cold air.
“The hay’s stacked at the back,” Holt says, already moving toward it.
He tosses a few forkfuls into their mangers like he’s done it a thousand times. I grab the water bucket, topping it up from the barrel.
We’re a good team, I think. And then I’m all mad at myself all over again.
The ponies snuffle at my coat pockets, hopeful, warm breath brushing my hands. I can’t help smiling. “Sorry, guys. No treats.”
Holt chuckles behind me. “Heather usually keeps sugar cubes in that tin.” He nods toward the shelf by the door.
Of course, he knows.
I find the tin, open it, and offer each pony one cube. Their teeth crunch softly, their whiskered noses nudging my palm.
Outside, the wind howls again and the stable walls creak.
“Storm’s coming,” he says in a low voice.
I glance back. He’s leaning against the stable door, arms folded, watching me. The dim light catches the heft of his shoulders, the hard line of his jaw.
He looks like he belongs here—at ease in the chaos. I hate that it makes me feel safer just having him nearby.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move, just watches me brush stray bits of hay off my coat. The air between us feels charged again, thick with everything we’re not saying.
Then he straightens, pushing off the door. “They’re set for the night. You should get inside.”
“Yes,” I say, then wonder why I feel disappointed.
We leave the stable together, fastening the door tight against the wind. Snow whips sideways, stinging my face. Holt keeps close, one hand hovering near my back without quite touching.
“Watch the ice,” he says.
The beam from my phone cuts a narrow tunnel through the dark, the snow swallowing everything else. I keep my head down, counting my steps, focusing on the sound of his boots beside mine.
By the time we reach the porch, my fingers are numb. He reaches past me, opens the door, and the wave of heat from the fire hits us both.
“Thanks,” I say, stepping inside. “For the ponies. And the rescue.”
He nods, brushing snow from his shoulders. His hair’s damp again, curling against his neck.
“You could stay till it settles,” I hear myself say. “If the roads are bad.”
He looks up, startled. Then he shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. I’ve seen worse.”
I nod quickly, pretending that’s what I wanted him to say. “Sure. Of course.”
He hesitates a moment longer, gaze moving over me.
“You’re safe here,” he says quietly. “Just keep the fire lit.”
And then he turns and steps back into the snow.
I stand in the doorway, watching him go—his tall, dark shape silhouetted by white, until he disappears into the trees.
Every part of me still feels him—his nearness, the deep, growly sound of his voice, the way his eyes kept finding mine like he couldn’t stop himself.
It makes no sense.
He’s the man who rejected me when I was so ready for him.
I shut the door hard and lean against it, breath shallow, heart hammering.
Why does it still feel like he wants me?
And why—
after everything—
does some part of me still want him back?