Chapter 7
Ruby
Beckett edits the video like he lives. He’s efficient with no fuss. And at least before he met me, he probably had no fear of hitting upload. I watch as he stitches my snowmobile debut onto his usual intro, adds a quick voiceover (“Beginner throttle control”), and schedules it to post.
“If you’re brave enough to show the world my first attempt at steering a rocket-sled,” I say, “I’m brave enough to let them see it.”
He smirks. “Thinking of adding a scorecard at the end.”
“Dock me points for almost amputating your foot.”
“Already did.”
The video goes live mid-afternoon. Twenty minutes later his laptop starts chiming like a pinball machine. We sit shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen bar while the comments roll in. I’m keenly aware of his masculine scent.
“Cutest snowed-in couple on the internet!” “Ruby + Tinderwolf” “She looks like a natural. He looks like a goner.”
Someone comments: “Ruby should get a segment! ‘Ask A Lingerie Owner’!” Another: “Would watch a TinDerby crossover.” I don’t know what that means, but the heart emojis multiply until even the dog would blush if he understood the internet.
Beckett’s fans are mostly…sweet? They roast him hard, but they love him.
I try to act casual, but my insides are a cross between a county fair and a small house fire. I keep waiting for the comments to veer mean, but they don’t. If anything, the channel regulars are delighted at my expense.
@jackthenorthwoods: “She’s got better throttle than my ex, Beckett. You’re in trouble.”
@lizzzzzardqueen: “I want this to be a Hallmark movie except with more drinking and less fake snow.”
@tinybears: “Is this how we get a Tinderwolf / Sugarplum Secrets collab? Asking for science.”
I nudge Beckett in the side and he gives a faint, embarrassed grunt, scrolling faster. After a minute he just closes the screen and stares at the fire like maybe it’ll burn away the idea of Ruby Garland, new internet sensation.
“You okay?” I ask, pretending not to stare at his profile, which is unfairly handsome in firelight. The silence grows just awkward enough for me to want to fill it.
“Hey, at least nobody said I looked like your daughter,” I say, trying for a joke.
“That’s always my fear when I’m with someone tall and rugged.
People assume with my short stature that I’m a lost Girl Scout.
” He huffs a single laugh, low. “You don’t look like a Girl Scout.
Nobody’s ever going to mistake you for anything but trouble. ”
The room goes quiet. Ranger grumbles from the hearth, rearranging his limbs. It’s not complete awkwardness, more like a thick, honeyed vibe.
I wonder if Beckett has any idea how loud he is, for a man who barely speaks. His presence vibrates in the room, a tuning fork I can’t ignore. I wish the universe had given me a chiller kink than “man who uses power tools and refuses to acknowledge internet fame,” but here we are.
I’m debating whether to ask if he ever eats more than once a day when the lights flicker—once, twice—and die. Total blackout. For a second, neither of us moves, as if the electrical grid itself pressed pause.
Beckett gets up, grabs a flashlight.
“Well,” I say into the quiet. “I guess the universe wanted a commercial break.”
Beckett exhales through his nose, stands, and moves into competence like it’s a second skin. “I’ll dig out some candles.”
“No worries, I have one … in my ‘stuff’.”
I rummage in the dark through one of my boxes and come up with exactly one candle -- shrink-wrapped, pink-red label, my brand’s cursive logo doing the absolute most.
I hold it up. “Don’t judge me. It’s called Sin-namon Nights. Top notes are cinnamon, clove, and something undisclosed.”
He pauses with a log in his hands. “You’re filing that under business expenses?”
“Obviously.” I peel the plastic, and he strikes a match. “Product testing. Imagine the IRS audit.”
The look he gives me says he is, in fact, imagining the audit. “The stove is gas. I’ll make coffee,” he says, which I’m ninety percent sure is code for I need to walk that off.
Sin-namon Nights starts doing its spicy, slightly scandalized thing. The room goes golden. Ranger flops near the hearth with a dog’s heavy sigh, like he personally ordered the ambience.
The fire catches fast, throwing shadows across the kitchen. Beckett rummages through a cabinet and pulls out bread, eggs, and a small tin of cinnamon.
“Mid-crisis brunch?” I ask.
“French toast,” he says, cracking eggs into a bowl like he’s done it a thousand times. “Comfort food.”
I hover beside him, offering a spatula. “You’re really leaning into this whole ‘snowed-in host’ thing. Should I tip?”
He shoots me a sideways look. “In this house, tips come in the form of doing dishes.”
“Bold of you to assume I can be bribed.”
“Then supervision only.”
He hands me the cinnamon. I reach for it at the same time he does. Our fingers brush. His are warm, calloused, big and strong. For a second I forget what hands are for.
“Teamwork,” I say, trying to sound casual.
He grunts, flipping the bread in the pan. “Sure.” The air fills with butter and spice.
Ranger parks himself strategically between us in case gravity does something scandalous. I grab a plate, and when he turns to set the next slice down, we bump shoulders. It’s a noticeable charge between us.
“Kitchen’s tiny,” he mutters.
“Or maybe you just take up a lot of space.”
He pauses long enough for a corner of his mouth to curve. “That’s possible.”
We eat standing up, leaning on the counter. The simple act of breakfast-for-dinner feels weirdly intimate. I lick a drop of syrup from my thumb and catch him noticing. He looks away first.
We make a nest on the living-room floor—two quilts, a couple of pillows, my thigh-highs under Beckett’s loaner sweats because yes, I absolutely changed into something warm and still a little ridiculous.
He hands me a mug. We sit cross-legged facing the fire like kids at a sleepover who know better than to sleep.
“Tell me how you started,” he says.
“My store?”
He nods. The fire makes his eyes darker. He’s not interviewing me. He’s asking because he wants the piece of me that isn’t on a label.
“Okay,” I say, tucking hair behind my ear.
“I was tired of everyone whispering like intimacy was a scandal and sexual enhancement items were either a prank or a secret. I wanted a friendly place with bright lights where questions were welcome and nervous laughter was mandatory. Some days I sell a lacy thing to a grandma who wants to feel pretty again. Some days it could be emergency tools for a girl that needs a new best friend. It all counts.”
He listens without interrupting, which I’m learning is his love language. Not that we’re using that word … yet.
“Your turn,” I say, nudging his ankle with my toe. “Why the cabin? Why the camera?”
He rolls the mug between his palms. “I built the cabin because I wanted proof I could. The camera because I hate waste and people keep breaking the same things the same way. Seemed easier to show them how not to.” He gives the smallest shrug. “Simple.”
“Simple is a fantasy,” I say, softer than I mean to. “But it’s a pretty one.”
We fall into easy quiet. The candle smells like cookies at a speakeasy. The fire throws a scatter of sparks up the stone chimney; one pops and I jump, then laugh at myself.
“What else do you have in those boxes?” he asks, trying for casual and landing on curious.
“Trade secret.” I smile into my mug. “But hypothetically? If Santa needed, say, special cookies? I’d have a recipe.”
He looks at the candle. “Of course you would.”
We lay back on our elbows. Ranger resettles between us like a warm ottoman, nose on my ankle, tail over Beckett’s foot. Wind presses against the windows. The room narrows to radiating heat and cinnamon spice and his steady breath close enough to count.
“You ever think the universe traps people on purpose?” I ask.
“For survival lessons?” he answers, showing a tiny smile.
“Maybe for other lessons.”
The space between us thins. We turn at the same time.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Mine does the exact same treacherous thing.
He leans in. I lean in. Ranger sighs, the fire crackles …
CRACK. A log pops loud enough to sound like a gunshot.
A flare of sparks skitters behind the grate.
I yelp, hand on his chest. He catches my wrist without thinking, protective first, everything else second.
We both freeze, inches away, ensnared in heat and cinnamon and don’t-you-dare.
“Sorry,” I whisper, ridiculous. “Your fire is dramatic.”
“Occupational hazard,” he murmurs back, voice low enough to melt chocolate.
The moment wobbles. He lets my wrist go. I let his shirt go. We sit again, not touching, now very aware of all the places we could.
“Maybe we should …” I begin.
“… add another log,” he finishes, standing too fast. He does. I sip my drink like cocoa spiked with brandy will save me. Ranger decides my knee needs his entire head, and I allow it because someone here should be calm.
The lights come back to life with a shy little flicker. The fridge kicks on. The room looks different instantly, less secret, like daytime snuck in with its shoes on.
“Well,” I say, aiming for breezy and landing on breathless. “I guess the universe clocked us out.”
He glances toward the hall. “I’ll check the breaker. Make sure it holds.”
“Okay.”
He leaves. I press two fingers to my mouth, because I am not seventeen anymore but my head is spinning like it didn’t get the memo.
When he comes back, it’s with blankets we don’t strictly need now that the heat’s returning.
He tosses one over Ranger, another over my legs, and lowers himself beside me again like we agreed on this camp a long time ago.
We don’t say the near-kiss out loud. We just lie there, listening to the new logs crackle. Maybe storms don’t trap you. Maybe they strip away your excuses.
I reach down and scratch Ranger behind the ear. He thumps once and goes limp. Across the quilt, Beckett’s hand flexes like he’s resisting the urge to do something complicated. I don’t move. The candle burns lower—Sin-namon Nights, spicy, cozy, absolutely tax deductible.
I fall asleep facing the fire, knowing he’s inches away, pretending to do the same. Between us, Ranger dreams of something simple like running, warmth, or safety. I envy him, because nothing about this feels simple anymore.
If this is what surviving a storm looks like, I might stop praying for plowed roads and clear skies.