Chapter 3
Lauren
Chocolate does fix everything. It’s a fact.
Or maybe I’m getting a little tipsy because after a couple of pieces of dark chocolate, the bourbon is smoothly rolling over my tongue.
I have zero intention of telling Dylan that.
"Still tastes like someone set a campfire in my mouth," I announce after my second attempt at proper bourbon appreciation. "But now it's a campfire with s'mores."
Dylan looks personally offended, like I've just insulted his mother and his dog in the same breath. "Then you're not doing it right."
"What the hell does that even mean?” I shake my head to indicate how ridiculous that sounds. “I know how to consume liquids. I’ve been doing that for twenty-six years.”
He's standing there in jeans looking all brooding and handsome. It's annoying how good he looks just leaning against the kitchen counter.
Since I ended my relationship with my ex-boyfriend a year ago, I haven’t really dated and I’m very aware of the fact that I packed my personal massager this weekend.
Now not only am I not going to be able to have some time for much needed self-care, I have Dylan to remind me just how long it’s been since I was under a man.
"If you can’t appreciate Pappy, then maybe you can appreciate Four Brothers," he says, setting his glass down. He starts digging in the cloth grocery bags he’s brought.
“Which brother do I get first?” I ask.
I mean it as a joke but he shoots me a look that I can’t decipher. I take another sip of my bourbon to distract myself from the fact that my cheeks feel oddly warm.
He ignores my question. "So you write country music, right? Maybe that explains your refined palate."
The way he says "refined" makes it clear he means the opposite.
Two can play this game.
"Yes, country. And if you don’t like songs that are basically a book in three minutes, then I question both your ears and your heart.” I march over to my guitar case and snap it open. “I loved country before it was cool.”
"Passionate. I love that." He's grinning. "Play something."
"No way. I don't perform for strangers. At least, not ones who can’t buy my songs." I run my fingers over the guitar strings, checking the tuning. "Besides, I'm here to write, not entertain house crashers."
"House crasher? Let’s not start that again. I prefer 'unexpected cabin mate.'"
I strum a quick chord progression, something I've been working on that sounds appropriately Christmas-y without being too sweet. Dylan's head tilts slightly, listening, and I immediately stop playing.
"Don't," I warn.
"Don't what?"
"Don't analyze my music. I can see you doing it." I’m not insecure about my skills but I prefer a finished product before I run it past someone who isn’t also a songwriter.
"I wasn't analyzing anything. I was just—"
"Judging. Same thing." I close the guitar case with a snap. "What kind of music do you listen to?"
"Everything. Rock, country, blues..." He pauses. "Okay, maybe not everything. I draw the line at death metal."
"At least we can agree on that. No offense to death medal lovers, but it’s not my thing.”
"What about you? Let me guess—Taylor Swift and Dolly Parton?"
I give him my most withering stare. "First of all, don't you dare come for Taylor or Dolly. They're goddesses. Second, my taste is way more eclectic than that. I listen to everything from Patsy Cline to Post Malone."
"Post Malone? Really?"
"Don't sound so surprised. Just because I wear sequined snowflakes doesn't mean I can't appreciate good music when I hear it."
Dylan holds up his hands in surrender. "Fair enough. Want to put something on while we figure out dinner?"
I'm about to suggest something suitably retro—maybe some Loretta Lynn to really mess with his head—when my phone buzzes with an emergency alert. Dylan's phone goes off at the same time, both devices emitting that jarring alarm sound that makes your blood pressure immediately spike.
"Winter storm warning," I read aloud. "Heavy snow expected through Sunday morning. White-out conditions. Travel not recommended."
Dylan's reading his own phone. "Winds up to forty miles per hour. Possible power outages."
As if on cue, the lights flicker.
"Not good," I mutter.
The lights flicker again, longer this time, and I notice Dylan's already moving toward the large wood burning fireplace in the family room. He's checking the damper and inspecting the basket of fire starter supplies, making sure we have backup heat if the power goes out completely.
Smart. I’m annoyed with myself for not thinking of that before him.
Then I give an involuntary shudder as I consider a power outage and me here all by myself. I’m a strong woman, but that would have been creepy as hell. And cold. Very, very cold.
"There's a woodpile on the back deck," he says, already heading for the sliding door. "We should bring some inside before it gets buried."
"We?" I hold up my hands. “I need these fingers.”
"I’m not asking you to karate chop the wood. Just to carry logs in that have already been cut.”
That makes me feel like a cabin princess. Which I would like to be, but only with a brawny boyfriend who will want to indulge me, not a man I just met. I feel like I have to prove myself cabin-worthy to Dylan.
"Fine. But I'm not carrying the heavy logs." Okay, so half-prove it.
"Wouldn't dream of asking you to." His tone is dry, but he's already pulling his hoodie back on. "Your delicate songwriter hands might get splinters."
"My delicate songwriter hands have calluses from guitar strings, thank you very much."
"You just said you have delicate fingers.”
“No. I said I need my fingers.” Before I can think better of it, I'm holding out my left hand, showing him the fingertip calluses that every serious guitarist develops. Dylan takes my hand in his, running his thumb over my fingertips with surprising gentleness.
"Impressive," he murmurs, and his voice has gone lower, rougher.
My breath catches. His hands are warm and slightly rough, like I noticed before, and the way he's touching me is definitely not platonic. There's something in his green eyes that makes my stomach do a little flip.
Then the lights flicker again and we both drop hands like we've been burned.
"Logs," I say quickly. "We should get the logs."
"Right. Logs."
We make a great team going out on the deck with me passing logs to Dylan to cart them into the house. We make quick work of the chilly task, then I head into the kitchen to rearrange our combined groceries while he stacks the wood next to the fireplace.
The minute he comes back to the kitchen, it’s clear we have very different ideas about organization.
As in mine are right and his are dumb.
"Why are you putting the coffee next to the cereal?" Dylan asks, shaking snow off of his hoodie. "Coffee goes with other hot beverages."
"Coffee is a breakfast drink. It goes with breakfast foods."
"Coffee is not a breakfast drink. Coffee is a necessity that transcends mealtimes."
I turn to stare at him. "I can’t dispute that necessarily, but you start the day with coffee and breakfast so it should be there for first use. And did you actually just give me a lecture about coffee categorization?"
"Did you just demonstrate a fundamental misunderstanding of kitchen organization?"
I think what I fundamentally understand is that he’s annoying. "How do you organize your bourbon?"
"I organize by distillery, then age, then proof."
Of course he does. "You're insane. It clearly should be organized by the color of the labels. And whether the labels are cute or ugly."
“Now that’s insane. Then again, you are the woman who brought marshmallows shaped like snowmen."
I pull the bag of marshmallows off of the counter and wave them at him. "These are festive. And functional. And they make hot chocolate infinitely better."
"They're ridiculous."
"You're ridiculous. And pretentious. Who brings thirty-year-old bourbon to a cabin to drink by himself?"
"Someone who appreciates quality." Dylan moves my coffee back to where he thinks it belongs. "Unlike someone who brings break-and-bake cookies and doesn't actually bake them."
"Those cookies are delicious raw!"
"Raw cookie dough is a salmonella risk."
"That’s not even true. They wouldn’t sell it with raw egg in it. It’s only a risk if you’re making them from scratch."
We're standing in the middle of the kitchen glaring at each other over grocery placement. I’m not going to back down. To my relief, Dylan gives me a smirk. But then he heads over to the thermostat and adjusts it.
I immediately feel compelled to see what he's doing. “Don’t touch that. I turned it up when I got here.”
"Seventy-eight degrees? Are you trying to recreate the surface of the sun?"
"I run cold."
"Well, I run hot, and I'm not spending my weekend sweating." He turns the thermostat down to seventy.
"Seventy is arctic,” I protest.
"Seventy is civilized."
“All these reindeer are going to need hats and scarves,” I mutter.
“There is a frighteningly large amount of reindeers in here, isn’t there?”
Yes, but, I still say, “I like the reindeer. The one by the door is named Buck.”
“Named by who?”
“Me.”
“Of course you did.” Dylan's smile is slow and warm, like honey in tea.
Damn it. That smile is definitely trouble.
I specifically came here to be alone. This is probably going to ruin my chance of getting any writing done at all. But there's something about Dylan Lennox that's making my pulse race in a way that has nothing to do with the bourbon I drank.
Maybe it's the way he looks completely at home in this cozy space, like he belongs among the twinkling lights and pine garland. Maybe it's the way he poured that ridiculously expensive bourbon like it was a religious experience.
Or maybe it's just that he's the first man in months who's made me forget about my ex and my deadline and my perpetual anxiety about whether I'll ever actually make it as a songwriter.
I struggle to find a sassy comeback to his words. I’m usually pretty darn good at those but right now I have nothing. I’m getting lost in his green eyes like I’m fifteen and he’s the star quarterback.
He nudges the thermostat up to seventy-two.
That makes it worse. Now he’s compromising. I suddenly feel warm in spite of my claims. My nipples tighten.
“Thank you,” I say.
He glances briefly at my chest. “You do look cold. I’m not heartless.”
Oh, God. He has noticed the nipples. Red-fucking-alert. He has noticed the nipples.
I fight the urge to cross my arms over my snowflakes.