Chapter 2
Sebastian
I knew she was trouble the second our eyes met through that window.
And now she’s in my arms.
Hands braced on my chest, fingers clutching the front of my flannel like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. Like her body hasn’t caught up to her brain yet.
Same as mine.
She’s soft in a way that short-circuits my self-control. Curves pressed against me like she belongs there.
Dark hair spilling over her shoulders, snow clinging to the ends. Big dark-blue eyes, still a little dazed. And that scent—vanilla, sugar, something warm I don’t have a name for—rises off her skin like a challenge.
I tell myself to let go. Put her down. Step back. Walk away.
But my grip stays firm. One hand against her back, the other resting at the curve of her hip, where her coat doesn't quite hide how good she feels.
The ice brought her down.
But this? This part is all me.
I ease her back onto her feet like she’s made of glass. She steps away, cheeks pink, brushing off snow that isn’t there.
"Thanks," she says. Soft but steady. "That could’ve gone worse."
Yeah.
So could a lot of things.
I nod once. Say nothing.
Then I turn and head for the inn.
Because that’s what I do. Keep my head down. Mind my business.
Especially when the woman in question looks like the answer to every damn thing I don’t have time to want.
Christmas is less than a week away. I’ve got guests checking in, two furnaces that won’t cooperate, and a father who thinks ignoring his cardiologist is some kind of Olympic sport.
And now this. The bakery girl.
I glance back once before opening the inn’s front door. She’s still standing in the snow, watching me leave like she can’t decide if I’m the villain in her story or not.
Trust me, sweetheart. I’m not your hero.
I’m the man who fixes what’s broken, carries the weight, and keeps the damn place running while the rest of the town plays carols and eats pie.
What I’m not is soft.
But the way she looked at me. The way she felt in my arms.
Yeah. That’s gonna be a problem.
Small-town winter mornings are not for the weak. The snow’s coming down harder by the time I finish salting the front steps.
I can feel it in my bones. The pressure shift. The colder bite in the air. I grew up in these mountains. My body knows the weather better than any forecast.
Last thing I need is some visitor from Phoenix slipping and blaming the inn. Not that we’re packed right now. December’s always slow until the final stretch before Christmas. Most of our regulars check in closer to the holidays. The ones here early come for the quiet.
Which is fine by me.
I stomp my boots off on the mat and head inside, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension in my back.
The lobby’s warm, the fire crackling steady in the stone hearth. The pine garland over the mantel still smells fresh, and the stockings Loretta hung last week add a pop of color.
She even hung one for my father. I already told him not to fill it with tools or anything that needs batteries.
He grumbled. Then smiled anyway.
"You're going to ruin your eyes," Loretta calls from the kitchen doorway. She’s dusted in flour and still has curlers in her hair, even though it's past noon. "Staring out that window like it owes you money."
"I'm not staring," I say.
I am, though.
After eleven years in the army, you learn to keep watch. You notice things. Take in details without trying.
Like the bakery girl showing up in the window next door about twenty minutes ago.
Scarf up to her chin, knit hat pulled low, cheeks pink from the cold.
Blue eyes scanning the street like she was memorizing it.
She looked soft. Curious. Like someone who didn’t belong here but might be trying anyway. And for a second, I couldn’t stop looking.
I scrub a hand down my jaw.
“Loretta,” I say, “you know who’s taking over the bakehouse?”
Her eyes light up. Gossip is Loretta’s favorite sport.
She crosses the lobby, drops into one of the armchairs, and pulls out a half-knit scarf from her apron.
“Of course I do. And before you ask, yes, she’s single.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. “Didn’t ask.”
“Didn’t have to. I can read that face, Sebastian Ford.
Little Willa Mathews inherited the place from her late grandmother.
Poor thing never even met the woman. Her dad was no good, so her mom took off with her when she was just a baby.
But that grandmother? She put the bakery in a trust and paid for Willa’s culinary schooling without ever taking credit.
Willa showed up yesterday in a little car packed to the roof with her stuff and baking supplies. I went over first thing this morning to say hello. Sweet girl. She mentioned someone caught her when she slipped on the ice. Figured that was you.”
Willa Mathews.
The name fits her.
Something soft around the edges, but steady underneath.
“You don’t need to play matchmaker,” I mutter.
Loretta snorts. “I’m not playing anything.
I’m telling you facts. You’re thirty-eight.
You live in the room behind the kitchen like a hermit.
You work yourself into the ground, you don’t flirt, and the last woman you were with left because she got tired of coming second to snowplows and furnace repairs. ”
Correction: She left for someone else. But sure, blame the snowblower.
“What’s your point?”
“My point is maybe it wouldn't kill you to go next door and say hi. Show her where we keep the spare sidewalk salt. Try speaking to a woman who isn’t me.”
She jabs a needle in my direction.
“You know Mrs. Hendricks asked if you were secretly a monk?”
I groan. “Loretta.”
“I told her no. Monks shave their heads. You're just too grumpy for anyone to put up with. But Willa? She’s got that spark. Looks like she could handle you just fine.”
Her grin goes wide.
“Besides, she’s beautiful, Bash. Someone like that won’t stay single for long. If you don’t make a move, someone else will.”
My hand tightens on the back of the chair.
A low thrum starts in my chest. Heavy.
Still.
“Loretta.”
She cackles. “Just making sure you’re still breathing, Bash. Don’t worry, I’m not going to meddle. I don’t need to. You’re already looking at that bakehouse like it holds the answer to something you didn’t know you were asking.”
She’s not wrong. I can’t remember the last time a woman held my attention past five minutes, much less from across a snowy street.
But this isn’t a movie. I’m not some kid getting a crush.
I’m a man with responsibilities and a to-do list that never gets shorter.
A father recovering from a heart attack.
A mother who spends her days making sure he doesn’t overdo it.
An inn that’s barely breaking even because tourism’s down, the furnace needs replacing, and I refuse to lay off staff who’ve been here longer than I’ve had a driver’s license.
Still.
A man can look.
And last night? I lay in bed longer than I should have, trying to push her out of my head.
Didn’t work.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she fit against me.
The softness of her in my arms. The way her fingers curled in my shirt like she didn’t want to let go.
That vanilla-warm scent that lingered even after I stepped away.
I should’ve shaken it off.
Instead, I lay there wide awake while the rest of the inn slept, jaw tight, blood running too hot for how cold the night was.
“If she needs anything,” I say, mostly to myself, “I’ll help.”
Loretta’s voice softens. “Of course you will. You’re a good man, Sebastian. That’s why I’m still here. Now go eat. Your mama sent over a casserole that’s probably still hot. And if you happen to pass by the bakehouse on your way to the kitchen? I won’t say a word.”