Chapter 12
Ethan
The walk to the truck is quiet in the way snow is quiet when you look outside.
The night is soft and muffled. Harper walks beside me, gloved hands tucked into her coat pockets, a faint curl of steam drifting from her breath.
Christmas lights gleam off the fresh powder on the rooftops.
The whole town looks like one of her snow globes come to life.
And she fits inside it too well. Too damn well. She laughs suddenly. It sounds soft and breathy. She seems amused by my napkin rescue back at Millie’s.
“I’m never forgetting that,” she says, nudging me lightly with her elbow.
I huff. “It was a good napkin.”
“It was a napkin,” she corrects.
“It still had potential.”
“Yes, but then you dropped a huge glob of apple filling on it. It’s no good now.”
“See, it was just waiting for me to bring it to life with that little mistake.”
She bites back another laugh. I find myself trying to deny her beauty.
In reality, I can’t. It sort of terrifies me.
I hold the door open for her as she slides into my old truck.
She probably thinks I’m poorer than a church mouse.
I’ve got money and lots of it. But I like sitting on it — knowing the assets and cash are there …
the same way I save napkins and well — everything.
All the way up the mountain, I’m quiet. She flips on the radio and hums softly to Christmas songs. There’s a part of me that’s already done with these holiday things for the day.
It’s dark now with an almost cloudless sky up here in the Rockies.
I pull back into the Grandview Lodge and park the truck.
Glancing over at her, I see she’s been nervously twisting the handle on her purse.
I think I know why. We’re starting to know one another …
and dare I say she likes me. I’m not sure, but I think so.
Now, we’re back to being in the same room and bed for our second night.
We reach the path leading up to the Grand Lodge. Lanterns line the walkway, casting warm pools of light on the snow. Harper pauses beside one, staring up at the branches overhead where icicles catch the glow like glass ornaments.
“It’s so pretty,” she says softly.
I look at the icicles. They’re fine. But she’s something else entirely.
“Yeah,” I say, the word coming out lower than I intend.
She glances up at me. In the few seconds before she looks away, I see it.
Trust. Warmth. Something that looks dangerously close to wanting.
My heartbeat thuds once, hard enough I feel it in my throat.
We walk again, slower now. Neither of us mentions the bed waiting for us upstairs.
When we reach the lodge entrance, Harper hesitates on the threshold. Snowflakes settle in her hair.
“Thanks for taking me to dinner. It was nice of Millie too,” she says.
“Can’t go wrong at Millie’s. Food hits the spot every time.”
“Still,” she says softly, “you took it on the chin with everyone’s questions. Thanks for enduring it with me.”
Enduring. That’s what it should’ve been. Instead, it was the best night I’ve had in years. I look at her and she looks at me. The silence between us is warm and charged, like static before a storm. If she leaned in just a little, I don’t know if I’d have the strength to pull back.
I clear my throat. “We should head in. It’s cold.”
“Right.”
She smiles, small and real, and walks inside. I follow, trying to ignore the way that smile lodged itself somewhere around my frozen heart.
???
The room is warm when we enter, the fire glowing low in the hearth like our butler and maid were expecting us. Harper sets her coat over the armchair, brushing snow from the sleeves. I kick off my boots, suddenly too aware of how big and awkward they look in a room built for romance.
She moves around the suite with a soft kind of clumsiness. It’s like she’s nervous but trying not to show it. She picks up her makeup bag. Sets it down. Folds her sweater. Unfolds it. Stares at the bed with panic she tries to disguise by smoothing the blankets.
“We survived day two,” she says, her voice high with an edge of nerves.
I nod. “One day at a time.”
Harper moves to the bathroom to change. I force myself to breathe normally. She comes out a minute later in pajamas that should be illegal. She’s wearing soft gray leggings and an oversized sleep shirt slipping off one shoulder. Her hair is loose. My brain short-circuits.
I brush my teeth and change into sweats and a t-shirt. It’s more than I would wear at home, but I don’t want to scare her. We climb into the bed again—her side, my side—leaving the Grand Canyon between us.
She pulls the blankets up to her chin. “Just … don’t drift.”
“I don’t drift,” I lie.
She gives me a look that says she absolutely does not believe that.
The fire pops softly. Snow drifts against the window. The room is too warm. Or maybe I am. Ten minutes pass. She shifts. I shift. We both pretend not to notice.
Then — lightly, barely above a whisper, “Ethan?”
My throat tightens. “Yeah?”
“I … um … I don’t know how I ended up so close to you last night.”
I stare at the ceiling. “You drifted.”
“I don’t drift.”
“You do now.”
She lets out a tiny, embarrassed groan and covers her face with her hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say quietly.
“It’s not,” she mumbles. “I practically crawled on top of you.”
“Harper,” I say, voice low, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Okay.”
The air between us thickens. If I leaned over—just an inch—we’d be — No. Not yet. Not like this. I turn onto my back, forcing a breath. “Sleep. We’ve got another big day tomorrow.”
She nods. “Right. Sleep.”
But neither of us move. Neither of us close our eyes. And neither of us will sleep tonight.
Not while the spark between us is burning a hole straight through the dark.