Chapter 3 Holly
Holly
Iwoke to absolute silence—the kind that only came with heavy snow muffling the world. The generator had died sometime in the night, and my breath misted in the cold air as I checked my phone. Seven-thirty and still pitch dark outside.
Riley. Who'd shown up last night with a duffel bag and enough firewood to heat a small city, then spent an hour teaching me to build a proper fire.
His hands had brushed mine when he'd handed me the poker, and I'd felt that same electric shock from yesterday.
This time, he'd felt it too—I'd seen it in the way his jaw tightened, how he'd stepped back like I'd burned him.
"I'll check on you in the morning," he'd said, then disappeared into the storm.
Now it was morning, and the world outside was nothing but white. Snow piled against the windows so thick I couldn't see his cabin fifty yards away.
I pulled on my warmest clothes and made coffee on the wood stove, grateful Grandma had kept the pantry stocked with lots of cans. The domestic routine helped calm my nerves—nerves that had nothing to do with being snowed in and everything to do with the man next door.
I'd dreamed about him. Ridiculous, heated dreams where those strong hands were touching me instead of firewood, where those blue eyes were dark with want instead of wariness. I'd woken flushed and aching, which was completely inappropriate considering I barely knew him.
But that was the problem. It felt like I did know him. Like some part of me had been waiting for him my whole life.
The knock came just as I finished my second cup of coffee.
Riley stood on my porch, snow covering his shoulders and caught in his dark hair. He looked like some mountain god, all broad shoulders and quiet competence, and my heart did that stupid stuttering thing again.
"Generator's going to run out of fuel soon," he said without preamble. “I brought you some firewood.”
"Good morning to you too," I said, but I was smiling. His gruffness was starting to charm me.
He shot me a look that might have been amused. "Morning. Can I come in, or do you want to heat the whole mountain?"
I stepped aside, and he moved past me into the kitchen. "Coffee?" I offered.
"Yeah. Thanks."
I poured him a mug, watching as he wrapped his hands around it like he was absorbing warmth.
His fingers were long and calloused, with a thin scar running across his left knuckles.
When he turned toward the window, I caught sight of another scar—pale and jagged—running from his ear down his jaw.
No doubt more were hidden under his beard.
"How bad is it out there?"
"Bad. Roads are impassable, phones are down. We're on our own until it stops." He glanced at the windows where snow was still falling steadily. "Could be two more days."
Two more days. Alone with him. The thought sent heat spiraling through me.
"About Edith," he said suddenly, setting down his mug. "You asked how I knew her."
My pulse jumped. "You don't have to—"
"Yeah, I do." He stared down at his hands. "She wrote to my unit for three years. Care packages, letters, pictures of this place. Kept us sane when everything went to hell."
I felt tears prick my eyes. That sounded exactly like Grandma.
"When I got hurt, when I came back with more problems than solutions, she offered me a place to heal. Helped me buy the cabin next door." His voice was soft now, almost gentle. "Checked on me when the nightmares got bad."
"Riley..." I reached toward him instinctively, but he stepped back.
"I'm not telling you this for pity. I'm telling you because you have a right to know why I can't just leave you to figure things out alone." His jaw tightened. "She made me promise to look after this place. To look after anyone who mattered to her."
"Is that what I am? An obligation?"
"No." The word came out rough, almost angry. "That's the problem."
Before I could ask what he meant, the generator coughed and died completely.
The sudden silence was deafening. Within minutes, I could see my breath.
"Fireplace," Riley said, already moving toward the living room. "Now, before the cold really sets in."
I followed him, wrapping my arms around myself. The cabin felt different without power. Smaller. More intimate.
Riley knelt by the fireplace and started building a fire with practiced efficiency. The flames caught and began to spread, casting dancing shadows on the walls. When he sat back on his heels, the firelight played across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw.
"We should move furniture closer," he said, standing and brushing his hands on his jeans. "This is going to be the only warm spot."
We spent the next hour rearranging the living room, dragging the couch into a semicircle around the fireplace. Working in close quarters, our hands bumped, our bodies brushed when we squeezed past each other.
Each touch was like a small electric shock. Each time, I caught him looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Want, maybe. Or confusion.
"That should do it," he said finally.
The living room looked different now. Cozier. The couch faced the fireplace directly, close enough that two people sitting on it would be very close to each other.
"I should get more wood," Riley said.
"I'll help."
"Holly." He caught my arm as I headed for the door.
"I'm not helpless. I can carry firewood,” I protested.
He looked down at my hand on his arm, and I felt the muscle tense under my fingers. When he looked back up, his eyes were darker than before.
"Fine. But you wear my coat."
He shrugged out of his heavy jacket and held it out. It was still warm from his body heat, and when I slipped it on, I was surrounded by his scent. The jacket hung almost to my knees, but it was the warmest thing I'd ever worn.
Outside, the world was a white curtain. Riley's cabin was barely visible, just a dark shape in the distance. We made three trips to the shed, building up a substantial pile by the fireplace.
By the time we finished, we were both breathing hard and covered in sawdust. I started to take off his jacket, but he shook his head.
"Keep it."
But I could see he was cold—the slight shiver he was trying to hide. Before I could think better of it, I stepped closer and held open one side of the jacket.
"Share it."
He went very still. "Holly."
"It's big enough for both of us."
For a moment I thought he was going to refuse. Then he moved closer, close enough that when he slipped his arm around my shoulders, I was pressed against his side.
"Better?" I asked, my voice softer than intended.
"Yeah." His arm tightened around me slightly. "Better."
We stood like that, sharing warmth. I could feel his heart beating against my shoulder, could feel the rise and fall of his chest. When I looked up at him, his eyes were already on mine, dark and intense.
"This is a bad idea," he said quietly.
"What is?"
"This. Being this close to you." His free hand came up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing across my skin. "You don't know what you're doing to me."
“What do you mean?”
"You're making me want things I gave up on. Making me hope for things that can't happen." But his thumb kept moving, tracing the corner of my mouth. "You should stay away from me, Holly. I'm not good for you."
"That's not your decision to make." I turned my face into his palm, pressing a soft kiss to his thumb. "It's mine."
He made a sound low in his throat—part groan, part surrender. "Holly..."
"What did Grandma tell you about me?"
"That you were stubborn. That you never gave up on anything you wanted." His voice was strained. "That you had more heart than was good for you."
"She was right about the stubborn part."
I pulled back just enough to look at him, to see the want and fear warring in his blue eyes. "I'm not going anywhere, Riley. You're stuck with me until this storm passes."
"I like it," he said quietly. "That's the problem."
"Why is that a problem?"
Instead of answering, he stepped back, putting distance between us. Cool air rushed in where his warmth had been.
"I should check the fire."
But he didn't move toward the fireplace. Just stood there looking at me like I was something he wanted but couldn't let himself have.
"Riley," I said softly. "What are you so afraid of?"
"Everything. I'm afraid of everything when it comes to you."
"You don't have to be."
He chuckled, dark and thick. "You're Edith's granddaughter. You're sunshine and Christmas lights and everything good in the world. And I'm broken, Holly. In ways that don't get fixed."
"Who says?"
"The doctors. The therapists. The nightmares that wake me up screaming." He turned away, staring into the fire. "You want to know why I can't handle Christmas music? Why I live alone?"
"If you want to tell me."
"I was in a convoy six months before my tour ended.
Christmas convoy, bringing supplies to an orphanage.
We had Christmas music playing—'Silver Bells,' just like yesterday.
" His hands clenched into fists. "IED took out the lead vehicle.
Killed my buddies instantly. I was close enough to feel the blast, close enough to survive when they didn't."
My heart clenched. "Riley."
"So yeah, Christmas music is a problem. Loud noises are a problem. You showing up with your lights and your music and your everything—you're a problem I don't know how to solve."
"Maybe you're not supposed to solve me," I said softly. "Maybe you're just supposed to trust me."
"Trust you to what?"
"Not to break. Not to run when things get difficult. Not to treat you like you're made of glass." I stepped closer. "I'm not afraid of you, Riley Knapp. I'm not afraid of your nightmares or your scars or your past."
"You should be."
"Why? Because you think you're dangerous?" I shook my head. "The only way you could hurt me is by pushing me away."
"Holly..."