Chapter 4 #2
I watch the trees pass by in the headlights, their branches heavy with snow, trying not to think about the fact that I'm about to stay at a stranger's house. Except he's not a stranger. He's the father of my baby. Which somehow makes this both better and infinitely more complicated.
My phone buzzes. A text from Tessa.
Tessa: You okay?
Me: Define okay.
Tessa: Fair point. He's a good guy. I promise.
Me: I know. That's what makes this scary.
Tessa: Call me tomorrow. I want details.
Me: There won't be details. This isn't like that.
Tessa: Yet.
I resist the urge to throw my phone out the window.
His truck finally turns onto a narrow drive, and his cabin appears through the trees.
It's bigger than Gage's. Not mansion-big, but solid.
Substantial. The place looks like it's been here forever and will be here long after we're gone.
Warm light spills from the windows, and I can see a workshop attached to one side, large enough to be its own building.
The whole property has this... settled quality. Like someone cares about it.
"You built this?" I ask, breaking the silence.
"Most of it." He kills the engine, and the sudden quiet feels louder than the drive. "Bought the land five years ago. Cabin was here but falling apart. I've been renovating since."
"By yourself?"
"Mostly. Gage helps sometimes. Keeps me from doing anything too stupid with the electrical." He gets out, coming around to open my door before I can do it myself.
I take his offered hand—again, that warm steadiness—and step down carefully. The cold hits immediately, stealing my breath and making my eyes water.
"Come on," he says, grabbing my suitcase. "Let's get you inside before you freeze."
The front door opens into a large main room that's somehow both rustic and comfortable.
Handmade furniture—a couch that looks butter-soft, a coffee table with intricate carved details, chairs that look sturdy enough to survive an apocalypse.
A stone fireplace dominates one wall, already crackling with a fire that must have been going before he left.
The mantel holds a few framed photos and what looks like a hand-carved bear that's either very good or slightly terrifying.
The kitchen is open, visible from the living area, with dark wood cabinets and countertops that gleam even in the dim light.
Everything is clean, organized, lived-in but not cluttered.
Everything smells like wood and smoke and something baking that makes my stomach growl despite the emotional chaos.
"I had bread in the oven," he says, noticing my reaction. "Forgot to take it out before I left. Hopefully it's not burned." He moves to the kitchen, pulling on an oven mitt and rescuing what turns out to be a perfectly golden loaf. The smell intensifies, and my stomach growls louder.
"You bake bread?"
"Sometimes." He sets the loaf on a cooling rack and shrugs off his coat. "Helps me think. Clears my head when I can't figure something out with wood or power tools."
I'm trying to process the image of this large, intense man kneading dough and puzzling through life's problems when he gestures down a hallway.
"Guest room's this way."
I follow him, taking in details as we walk. Pictures on the walls—mostly landscapes, a few of Trace and Gage in what looks like military gear. A bookshelf overflowing with a chaotic mix of woodworking manuals and what looks suspiciously like fantasy novels. Everything is clean but lived-in. Real.
He stops at a door and pushes it open.
The room is simple but comfortable. A queen bed with a thick quilt, a dresser, a window that probably has a view of the forest in the daylight. There's a chair in the corner and a small table with a lamp. Everything looks... ready. Like he prepared for someone to actually use this space.
"Bathroom's across the hall," he says, setting my suitcase on the chair. "Extra blankets in the closet if you need them. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen—I'm serious about that. You're eating for two."
I nod, throat tight with an emotion I can't name.
He lingers in the doorway, and I can see him fighting with whatever he wants to say. Finally, he settles on, "This place is yours. No strings. No expectations. But tomorrow, we're talking. About the baby. About the future. About everything you haven't told me yet."
"Okay," I whisper.
"Get some rest." He starts to leave, then pauses. "Patrice?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're here. Even if this is all kinds of messed up. I'm glad you told me."
Before I can respond, he's gone, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft click.
I sink onto the bed, hand automatically going to my stomach. The baby kicks—a gentle flutter, like even it’s processing everything that just happened.
"What have I done?" I whisper to the empty room, to the baby, to myself.
Outside, I hear Trace moving around. Water running. The clink of dishes. Normal sounds that somehow make this whole situation feel even more surreal.
I'm in Alaska. Staying with the father of my child. A man who bakes bread and builds furniture and looked at me like I was something precious instead of a problem to solve.
The baby kicks again, stronger this time.
"I know," I murmur, rubbing the spot. "I know. This is insane."
But insane or not, I'm here now.
Tomorrow I'll figure out what that means.
Tonight, I'm just going to lay on this bed and listen to a stranger—no, the father of my baby—do dishes in the next room.
And try not to think about how right this all feels.