Chapter 4
FOUR
LIZ
The next morning, I find Thatcher in the kitchen.
He’s shaved again. The mutton-stache has been downgraded to something resembling actual facial hair. The effect is unfairly charming.
He catches me watching. “Progress, right?”
“Better,” I admit. “Still not sure you should be trusted with sharp objects.”
He grins, and for a moment the heavy cloud that’s followed him since yesterday thins. But then he turns toward the window, gaze distant, and I sense the weight settling back over him.
I dry my hands and nod toward the folded paper on the counter. “What’s the story with the list, really? You act like it’s a running joke, but you’re still checking things off.”
He stares at it a long moment. “It started as a dare to myself,” he says finally. “When I got suspended, I realized I didn’t know what to do without hockey. My whole life runs on schedules—training, travel, games. Suddenly I had two weeks and nothing to prove.”
“So you made a to-do list for being human.”
“Pretty much. Except the more I look at it, the more it feels like a confession instead of a checklist.”
I lean against the counter. “Confession to what?”
He exhales slowly. “To how lost I am. To how mad I still am about things I said were fine.”
“Stevie and Grady?”
His jaw tightens. “He was my teammate. My best friend. And she’s my baby sister. It should be simple—two people I love are happy. But I keep picturing him on the ice next to me, knowing what he knows about her, about us. It messes with my head.”
“Because you feel left behind,” I say quietly.
He looks at me, startled, as if I’ve named something he’s never dared to say.
“Maybe,” he admits. “I thought I was protecting her, but really I just didn’t want to be the last one standing.”
I reach out before I can overthink it, brush my fingers over his forearm. The warmth of his skin seeps into mine, a pulse beneath the surface. “You don’t have to stay angry to still love them.”
Something flickers in his eyes—gratitude, maybe relief. “You always talk like that?”
“Occupational hazard,” I say, trying for lightness. “I used to write emotional ad copy. Taglines about personal growth and finding your sparkle.”
He huffs a laugh. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It was. But I meant some of it.”
He glances out the window again, then back at me. “You want to help me with the next thing on the list?”
“That depends. Am I going to need a helmet?”
“Just gloves. We’re cutting down our own Christmas tree.”
Outside, the air bites at my cheeks, crisp and full of light.
The forest around the cabin is dusted with new snow, branches bending under the weight.
Thatcher carries the small hatchet like it’s an extension of his arm; I carry the thermos of cocoa and try not to stare at how good he looks doing it.
When we find the right tree—a perfectly imperfect spruce—he steps back and gestures grandly. “Your call, boss.”
“I don’t think I’m qualified to supervise lumberjacks.”
“Too late.” He kneels, lines up the blade, and with each strike sends the scent of sap and cedar into the air. The sound echoes through the clearing. When the tree finally tips, he lets out a triumphant whoop that startles a flock of birds into flight.
He looks up at me, grin wide, cheeks pink from the cold. “Add ‘Timber!’ to the list.”
I laugh, the sound puffing white in the air. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously handy.”
“Debatable.”
He hoists the tree over his shoulder, muscles flexing under his jacket, and my stomach does a traitorous little flip. I tell myself it’s the cold. It’s definitely not.
Back inside, we set the tree in a stand and stare at it. Bare branches, bits of snow melting onto the floor.
“No ornaments,” I say. “Guess that’s next on the list.”
He gestures toward the pantry. “We’ve got popcorn.”
An hour later, the living room smells of butter and woodsmoke. We sit cross-legged on the rug, threading popcorn and cranberries onto strings. He’s terrible at it—his line keeps snapping—but he’s patient, and his running commentary keeps me laughing.
When we run out of popcorn, I fold paper snowflakes from an old notebook. He watches, fascinated.
“You’re good at that,” he says.
“Occupational hazard again. Deadlines make you creative.”
He reaches over, brushes his thumb over one delicate edge. “You make something beautiful out of nothing.”
The words hit deeper than they should. I look up, meet his eyes, and the air between us shifts. The fire pops softly, the only sound. His gaze drifts to my mouth.
My heartbeat stumbles.
He leans closer, slow enough for me to pull away, and when our lips meet it feels like exhaling after holding my breath too long.
Warmth unfurls through me—slow, sweet, dangerous.
His hand finds the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, the kiss deepening until I feel it in my pulse, my knees, everywhere.
When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine. His breath is unsteady, eyes bright.
“Liz,” he murmurs, voice rough, “you scare the hell out of me.”
The words aren’t angry—just true, raw, almost tender.
I smile, breathless. “Good. You scare me too.”
He laughs softly, presses one last quick kiss to the corner of my mouth, and leans back.
“Guess we can check ‘get laid’ off the list another day,” he says, trying for humor.
I shake my head, cheeks warm. “You really are incorrigible.”
“Yeah,” he says, watching me with that new, careful look. “But I’m trying to get better.”
Outside, the light fades to silver, our handmade ornaments swaying gently in the glow of the fire. For the first time since I arrived, the cabin feels like Christmas—not because of the tree, but because of the man sitting beside it, smiling like he’s finally remembered how.