Chapter 8
Rudy
I woke up with his voice in my head.
Sleep hadn’t wiped it clean; if anything, it had pressed it deeper, like a thumbprint in soft clay.
Sleep well, sweetheart.
The words wrapped around that other word—the one that slipped out of me on the inn steps like it had grown legs and escaped.
…’Night… Daddy.
Heat crawled up my neck just thinking about it. I scrubbed both hands over my face, groaning into my palms.
“Smooth, Callahan,” I muttered. “Real smooth.”
The radiator hissed in the corner, filling the small room with its familiar hum.
The quilt was heavy and warm across my legs, the kind of weight that made it tempting to stay put forever.
Outside, car tires crackled over packed snow, muffled by the old inn windows.
Somewhere downstairs, someone laughed. It sounded easy.
My gaze slid to my open duffel at the foot of the bed.
The reindeer’s ear peeked out.
I hesitated, then reached for him, fingers brushing the worn plush of his belly. He was small, solid, nothing fancy. Mrs. Davis had once called things like this “anchors.” “Some things,” she’d said, “you hold onto.”
I’d thrown so many anchors away after she passed.
Except this one.
I pulled the reindeer onto my stomach, tracing the stitched line of his smile with my thumb. Graeme’s face rose unbidden behind my eyes: the way he’d looked at me in Holly & Pine yesterday, all that patient focus and zero judgment.
The way his thumb had caught a tear at the corner of my eye and wiped it away like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The way he made me feel seen.
He hadn’t called them rules.
That mattered.
He’d asked instead. Framed everything like a choice. Like something I could step into or step back from without being punished for it.
But lying there now, with the radiator ticking and the reindeer warm against my stomach, I understood why it had settled so deeply in me anyway.
It had shape.
Two simple things I could hold onto when my head started spinning. Use your words. One moment at a time.
They didn’t fence me in. They didn’t ask me to be smaller or quieter or better behaved.
They just… made things clear.
And clarity, it turned out, was something my body trusted.
A knock sounded on the door, light but clear.
“Rudy” Mae’s voice carried through the wood, warm and efficient at the same time. “You’ve got a visitor, dear. Downstairs when you’re ready.”
My heartbeat stumbled.
A visitor?
Here?
My brain did a quick shuffle through possibilities. I didn’t know anyone else in Winterhaven. That left exactly one person, and he was currently starring in every one of my half-conscious fantasies.
“Coming,” I called, voice a little too high. I cleared my throat. “Thank you, Mae.”
I set the reindeer gently back in the duffel and closed it halfway, the way you might tuck a kid in and leave the door cracked.
“You’ll be okay,” I whispered, fingers resting on the zipper for a second longer than necessary. I wasn’t sure if I meant the plush or myself.
After grabbing a hot shower, I dressed in layers: soft socks, jeans, the deep green sweater Mrs. Davis had given me for my twenty-fifth birthday, the one that still smelled faintly like lavender if I buried my face in it.
Scarf. Coat. Gloves tucked into pockets, just in case.
When I caught my reflection in the narrow mirror by the door, I paused.
I looked… younger, somehow.
Not small, exactly. Just less weighed down.
Downstairs, the inn lobby glowed with lamplight and evergreen garlands. Mae stood behind the small wooden desk, knitting needles paused mid-stitch. She tipped her chin toward the door, eyes soft with something that looked suspiciously like approval.
“He’s just outside,” she said. “Didn’t want to crowd the entryway. Good man, that one.”
“Yeah,” I said, my throat suddenly dry. “He is.”
I stepped out into the crisp air before I could overthink it.
Graeme’s truck idled at the curb, dark blue with a dusting of snow along the hood.
He leaned against the passenger side, hands tucked into his coat pockets, breath puffing in visible bursts.
His hair caught the thin winter light—silver at the temples, darker at the roots, familiar in a way that made my chest twist.
When he saw me, his whole expression shifted. Not dramatically. Just a quiet softening around his eyes and mouth that landed somewhere deep in my ribs.
“Morning, Rudy,” he said.
God, his voice.
“Hey,” I managed. “Um. Hi.”
One corner of his mouth tipped up. “Gingerbread day at the community center. Thought I’d offer you a ride. It’s not far, but the sidewalks are slick in a few spots.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“I know.” He shrugged, casual. “I wanted to.”
Heat crept up the back of my neck, hidden, thankfully, by my scarf.
“Okay,” I said. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He opened the passenger door for me. A folded blanket waited on the seat—soft, plaid, clearly not an accident.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d want it,” he said, noticing my glance. “For your legs. Gets chilly in the lot while they’re herding everyone in.”
My chest did that too-full thing again.
“That’s… thoughtful,” I said, sliding in.
He gave a small nod, like he accepted the word and set it aside, no fuss made of it.
Then he reached behind the seat and held out a travel mug and a paper-wrapped bundle.
“I grabbed you something,” he said easily. “Cocoa. And a sandwich. No pressure—just figured it might help.”
For a second, I just stared at it.
“Oh,” I said. Intelligent as ever. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he said again, just as simply. “Take it or don’t.”
The lack of expectation did something strange to my throat.
“Thank you,” I said, taking both. The mug was warm against my palms. The bun smelled faintly sweet, buttery.