3. Shae
3
SHAE
M y footsteps echo as I pace Julian’s empty guest room, the bare space amplifying every sound. I’ve been at this for forty-five minutes, trapped here instead of protecting my cabin from the storm.
When the pacing doesn’t calm my nerves, I drift to the window. Through curtains of snow, I can just barely make out my cabin’s shape, looking small and exposed. Admittedly, I’m relieved to be able to keep an eye on it from here, but the fact that I can see it at all from his house just proves my point—he built too damn close.
I rest my hand against the cold glass. His house is already weather-tight, with its perfect windows and finished roof. And he just had to build it here, close enough to see from my building site, when he had seven and a half whole acres to choose from. The frustration burns in my chest, mixing with the anxiety of being trapped here, in his space, where everything feels too grand and spacious.
Something clatters downstairs and my shoulders tense. Even up here, I can’t escape Julian’s presence. Can’t escape the fact that he was right about the storm. Can’t escape the way my skin prickles with awareness every time I hear him move downstairs, or how the scent of his cologne still lingers in the air around me, or how much I hate that I notice these things.
I pull out my phone, desperate for good news about the storm, but the forecast only confirms my fears. Heavy snow and high winds expected to continue through the night. I’m going to be stuck here even longer than I thought.
Damn it.
A knock on the door startles me from my thoughts. “Hey,” Julian calls out, his voice carrying through the wood. “I’m making dinner. You should come have some with me.”
“I’m fine,” I call back, even though my stomach growls at the mention of food. I haven’t eaten since early this morning.
“I’m making pasta with my grandmother’s secret sauce recipe. And garlic bread that’s been known to make grown men weep.”
The smell wafts up the stairs, rich and tempting. My mouth waters against my will.
“You’re missing out on a life-changing culinary experience,” he adds cheerfully.
“I’m not interested in life-changing experiences,” I mutter, but the aroma of garlic and herbs is becoming impossible to resist. My stomach growls again, louder this time.
His laugh carries through the door. “I heard that. Look, I promise not to be annoyingly helpful during dinner. We can eat in complete silence if you want.”
I press my fingers to my temples. The thing is, I know exactly how this will go. He’ll try to be charming and put me at ease, and I’ll sit there struggling to string two words together. The silence will stretch too long between responses, and I’ll overthink every awkward moment. And then I’ll spend the rest of the evening replaying every painful interaction, reminding myself why I prefer to be alone.
But I’m so hungry. And it smells so good.
“Fine,” I call out. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
His footsteps retreat downstairs, and I take a deep breath. I can do this. It’s just dinner with a neighbor. A very attractive neighbor who makes me even more socially awkward than usual, but still. It’s just dinner.
The kitchen is warm and bright against the storm’s darkness, filled with aromas that make my mouth water more than I want to admit. Julian moves through the space with easy confidence, stirring sauce and checking bread like this is just an ordinary evening at home.
I hover uncomfortably in the doorway, not sure where to stand or what to do with my hands. Construction materials are still stacked along one wall, but somehow Julian has carved out a functional workspace. Warm light spills from overhead fixtures, catching the steam rising from pots on the stove.
“There she is.” He glances up from the pasta with a grin that makes my chest tight. “Would you mind unpacking some plates for us? They’re in that box by the pantry.”
I nod, grateful to have something productive to do. The box reveals a set of pristine, brand new white plates, the kind that no doubt cost more than my monthly grocery budget. I lift out two, their weight solid and expensive in my hands.
Then one tilts. My stomach drops as I watch it slip out of my fingers in slow motion. I reach out, straining to catch it before?—
Oh, no . The shattering of ceramic on flooring pierces the air. Instinctively, I step backward and my foot catches on the uneven transition between the temporary flooring and the unfinished surface. Before I can catch myself, I lose my balance, my foot sliding across a shard of broken plate in the process.
Pain slices across my skin. I grab for the counter, but it does nothing to dull the sharp ache radiating from my foot.
“Shit.” I look down to see blood already staining the unfinished wood floor. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Don’t move.” Julian is at my side in an instant, his hand steady on my elbow. “There’s broken ceramic everywhere.”
“I’m so sorry. Your plate—and the floor—” I try to step back, but pain shoots up my leg the moment I put weight on my injured foot.
“Forget the plate.” His arm slides around my waist before I can protest. “First aid kit’s in my bathroom. Come on.”
I want to wave away his help and deal with this mess on my own, but my throbbing foot and the ceramic shards surrounding me make that impossible. He tightens his grip on my waist, and despite how self-conscious it makes me feel with his hand settled there, I let him guide me forward.
He guides me through his house, taking most of my weight as I hobble alongside him. His bathroom is massive—of course it is —with a rain shower and double vanity that’s clearly just been installed.
“Sit.” He gestures to the edge of the tub and I sink down gratefully, my injured foot throbbing. When he pulls a first aid kit from under the sink, I hold out my hand.
“I can take care of it myself.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “Your hands are shaking.”
I pull them back immediately, tucking them against my stomach. I keep them there as he kneels in front of me and gently lifts my injured foot onto his knee. His touch is impossibly warm against my skin, and I try not to think about how close he is, or how his cologne fills this small space.
“This might sting a bit,” he warns me.
“Ow!” I jerk back as he cleans the cut. “A bit ?”
“I’m being as gentle as I can.” His voice is soft and his hands remain steady, carefully clearing away the blood. “Almost done with this part.”
I swallow as I watch him wrap the gauze with practiced efficiency, trying to ignore how his fingers brush against my skin.
“I’m really sorry about the plate,” I say. “And the blood.”
“I was having second thoughts about that set anyway,” he says, the corner of his lips lifting. He secures the bandage with medical tape. “Maybe this is a sign I should’ve gone with the blue ones.”
A small, relieved laugh escapes me. After an awkward beat, I add, “Thanks for bandaging my foot.”
“Hey, that’s what neighbors are for, right?”
His smile fades into something more serious as our eyes meet. “Look, maybe we could start fresh?” He holds out his hand. “Clean slate?”
I stare at his offered hand, my throat tight. Part of me wants to explain—about how noises that don’t bother other people feel like physical pressure against my skin, how social situations leave me drained for days, how I need routines and quiet just to function. But what would be the point? Even with a clean slate, I’d still be me. I’d still be the girl who gets overwhelmed by casual conversation, who needs to rehearse basic interactions in my head, who struggles with the simplest things.
The silence stretches too long. Julian’s hand drops, and something in his expression shifts.
“Well,” he says, pushing to his feet, “let’s just take it a day at a time, huh?”
He extends his hand again, this time to help me up. I take it, meaning to use it for balance, but he pulls as I push myself up and suddenly I’m stumbling forward. My chest collides with his, his other hand catching my elbow to steady me. For one suspended moment, I’m surrounded by his warmth, his cologne, the solid presence of him.
“Careful,” he murmurs, his breath stirring my hair.
I step back too quickly, my cheeks burning. “Sorry. Again.”
He leads the way out of the bathroom, and I try to focus on my throbbing foot instead of the lingering sensation of his chest against mine. I can’t be friends with Julian. There are too many reasons why not—I’m too awkward, he’s too…everything. Being friends with my closest neighbor is the exact opposite of the solitude I came here for.
It’s better to keep my distance. Keep to my original plan. Build my cabin, live my quiet life, and pretend I can’t see his house through the trees.