Chapter 8 Colette
Colette
I liked the way he froze when I said it — just for a second, eyes flicking up from his coffee like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
“I think you like it,” I said again, slower this time, because I wanted to see what he’d do with the words.
He didn’t look away. Not this time. Just breathed out once, steady, an exhale that made me think he was counting to ten behind those serious eyes.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” he said finally.
“Confidence looks good on people,” I said, stealing a bite from his plate. “You should try it sometime.”
He blinked, and I smiled around the fork. I was having too much fun. It wasn’t even about flirting — not really. It was about watching someone who seemed unshakable actually waver.
Over me.
“Careful,” he said, trying to seem stern — or maybe unbothered? He was neither. “You don’t know what you’re playing at.”
“Oh, I do.” I leaned forward a little, elbows on the table. “You get treated like you’re fragile, don’t you? Everyone tiptoes around you. Famous author, tragic past, needs quiet.”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t expect that from me, hotshot.”
The word slipped out before I could stop it, and his expression changed — somewhere between disbelief and a laugh he seemed too afraid to let out.
“Hotshot?” he repeated.
I shrugged. “You earned it. You’ve got the whole brooding thing down to a science.”
His mouth twitched, an almost-smile that never quite made it to his eyes. “You’re relentless,” he said again, with the faintest hint of an eye roll.
“Someone has to be,” I said, and looked straight at him. “Otherwise, you’ll just sit here and overthink your coffee.”
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The snow outside pressed against the windows, a muffled world of white and quiet. Inside, it was warm, and close, and too much. He set his mug down. “You’re dangerous, Colette.”
“Only if you let me be.”
I watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallowed, sputtering quietly.
“So, Mr. Author… how long until the power returns?” I sipped my coffee — it was much too strong for my liking, but just warm enough to curl in my stomach.
“When the roads clear and the linemen can get to whatever caused the problem, Ms. Baxter.” He said it too properly, like formality was armor.
I tilted my head, pretending to think. “So, days. Maybe a week.”
“Hopefully not.”
“Oh, but think of all the quiet time. Just you, your notebook, and a woman who hums Christmas songs off-key.”
He gave me a look — one part glare, one part surrender. I liked it. It made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t in months.
Maybe it was childish, flirting with the first man who looked at me like I wasn’t a mistake, but I couldn’t help it. Power felt good after losing so much of it.
He was still half-smiling when he stood, brushing his palms against his jeans. “I should check if there’s a generator somewhere. Old places like this sometimes have one tucked behind the shed.”
I arched a brow. “And you’re volunteering to brave the blizzard?”
“Unless you’d rather freeze.”
I sighed, dramatic. “Fine. I’m going with you. But if we both die, I’m haunting you.”
He gave a low hum, pulling on his coat. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”
We geared up separately. Me in the small bathroom, him… elsewhere. I pulled on sweats and a second sweatshirt, tugged a dark beanie over my hair, and slipped on my boots.
“Those aren’t shoes.” Silas’ eyes drifted down my ridiculous outfit, gaze settling on my shoes. “Those are slippers.”
“They’ve got soles!” I lifted one up to show him the rubber bottom.
He didn’t answer, just shook his head and zipped up his coat.
The door stuck on the snowdrift, and Silas had to throw his shoulder into it before it gave way. The cold slapped my face, sharp enough to steal my breath. The world had turned to white noise — wind and snow and the crunch of our boots.
He moved ahead of me, solid and steady, with the hood of his coat pulled low. I kept my eyes on the dark line of his shoulders, the way he leaned into the storm like it was something he could reason with.
“This is insane!” I shouted over the wind.
“Just — stay close!”
“I am close!” But when he turned to look, I wasn’t — at least, not close enough.
My foot hit ice. The ground pitched, and my breath caught in my throat as I went down. The snow hit cold and heavy, but before I could curse, a hand closed around my arm — strong, sure — and pulled me upright.
“Got you,” he said. His voice was low, nearly lost in the wind.
I blinked up at him. Snowflakes clung to his hair, his lashes, the scruff of his beard and the curve of his mouth. His arm was still around my waist, his chest pressed to mine, both of us breathing fast and shallow.
“Thank you,” I managed. My words puffed between us, clouding the small space we shared. Whether it was the cold or something… more, my cheeks flushed deep.
He didn’t move right away. Just looked at me — really looked at me — and I could almost feel him deciding whether to laugh or to let the moment hang there, heavy and unspoken.
“You’re freezing,” he said finally, voice rough.
“No shit, Sherlock.” I grumbled, gloved fingers curling into his arm. “Comes with the territory.”
“Or maybe just the bad footwear,” he murmured, eyes dropping to where my boots were half-submerged.
I smirked. “You don’t get to critique me when I saved your vacation.”
His lips twitched, almost a smile. “You call this saving?”
“Depends on how the story ends.”
That earned me a quiet sound from him — half a sigh, half a laugh — and then he stepped back, gloved fingers brushing my arm as if reluctant to let go.
The shed was half-buried behind a drift; the lock was iced over. He rattled it, cursed softly, then turned. “No generator, at least not one we have access to.”
I tilted my head, pretending to be disappointed. “So we’re really going to have to share body heat then.”
His eyes flicked to mine — fast, startled, and maybe a little amused. “You don’t know when to quit.”
“You like it.”
“Maybe.”
He turned back toward the cabin, but when I slipped again — half on purpose this time — his hand shot out, steadying me before I could fall. This time, he didn’t let go right away.
For a breath, we just stood there in the storm, his fingers tight around my wrist, our pulses a little too loud in the quiet.
“Come on,” he said finally, softer now. “You’ll freeze out here.”
But he didn’t let go until we were both back under the porch light, snow dripping from our coats, my heart still a little too fast for the cold to explain.