Chapter 10
Ten
Holley
I don’t remember the last night I actually slept.
Not really slept. Just the kind of dozing where your body sinks and your brain finally stops tallying everything you did wrong in life.
The cold doesn’t let me. It crawls into the car with me, curls around my spine, and grips me with fingers that feel like they belong to winter itself.
By the time dawn edges up over the trees, my toes are numb, my neck is locked stiff, and my head aches like I’ve been clenching my jaw for hours.
The car windows are fogged from where my breath hit them all night, little crescents of frost spiderwebbing across the glass.
I wipe the windshield with the sleeve of my coat, but it doesn’t help much.
I’m so tired my eyes burn.
Another night of this. Another morning trying to pretend I’m fine.
I turn the heater on even though it eats gas I can’t spare. Warm air sputters out weakly. I hover my hands in front of the vents, begging them to actually do something. Eventually they thaw enough that I can grip the steering wheel.
Work. I just have to get through work. After a steaming hot shower at the gym, I face the day ahead.
The dental office is warm, at least. Heated, bright, and smelling like mint and disinfectant—an odd comfort.
But the moment I step inside, I can feel Kendra’s eyes on me.
I know I look like hell. Hair piled in a messy knot.
Dark circles under my eyes. My scrubs rumpled from being in my bag in the cold.
“You okay, hon?” Megan asks. She doesn’t mean anything by it. She’s gentle. But I still flinch inside.
“Didn’t sleep great,” I reply, forcing a smile I hope looks casual.
She gives me the kind of assessing glance that tells me she’d push if she thought I’d cave. I don’t. I move toward my desk, pull patient files, and get everything ready for the day. But I’m sluggish. Clumsy. I drop a tray of sterilized tools and cringe as they clatter across the floor.
“Jesus, Holley.” Dr. Kline pops his head out of exam room two. “Rough morning?”
Rough month. Rough year. Rough everything.
“Just tired,” I murmur.
He doesn’t push either, but he watches me too long before going back to the patient.
By noon, my whole body feels dipped in cement—heavy, slow, uncooperative.
I can’t keep doing this.
But what choice do I have?
When my shift finally ends, I pull my coat tight around me and step back into the biting air. Snowflakes swirl lazily at first, but the clouds rolling in promise something heavier. I’m shivering by the time I reach my car.
My phone buzzes.
Tony Chili on the stove. Come eat with me.
I stare at the message longer than I should.
Tony. The man has practically become the magnetic energy my life keeps tilting toward even though I keep telling myself not to. He’s too much—too steady, too solid, too kind in a way that feels dangerous after how my marriage ended. But he makes me feel seen. Not pitied. Not judged.
And truth is, I’m starving.
My thumbs move before my brain catches up.
Me: That actually sounds amazing. I’ll head over.
His response is immediate.
Tony: Drive careful. Roads are slick.
Something warm threads through my chest at that. Unexpected but welcome.
By the time I reach the cabin, snow is falling faster—thick flakes that stick to my windshield and blur the trees. Light glows from the windows of the place, soft and golden, like a hearth in a storybook.
Jesus, the smell has my mouth watering as soon as I walk through the door. Chili, simmering and rich, thick with spices, tomato, and something smoky that makes my stomach growl loud enough he hears it.
He grins, stepping aside. “Get in here before you freeze to death.”
“I’m fine,” I lie automatically, brushing snow from my coat.
He gives me that look—the one that feels like he’s reading my pulse through my eyes. “Sure you are.”
The warmth inside hits me like a physical touch. A pot bubbles on the stove. The air hums with quiet music—low, slow blues that vibrate through the room more than play in it. Suddenly my cabin feels like a dream becoming a reality.
“Sit,” he orders, pointing to the stool at the counter. “You look wrung out.”
“I just didn’t sleep much.”
His jaw tics, barely perceptible unless you’re watching him the way I do. Like someone who’s grateful for distractions.
“Eat first,” he instructs. “Then we talk about sleep.”
It should irritate me—any hint of someone deciding things for me. My ex-husband was good at that. Too good. But with Tony it doesn’t feel like control. It feels like care. Like someone stepping in because I’m too tired to step in for myself.
He serves me a steaming bowl with cheddar cheese on top, and when I take the first bite, a sound slips out of me that is embarrassingly close to a moan.
“Good?” he asks.
“Unfairly good.”
He smirks. “Thought you could use a meal made by someone who knows their way around a kitchen.”
It’s simple. Teasing. And god help me, it works.
We talk, light touches of conversation, nothing deep. My body slowly warms. The ache in my bones eases. And for a little while, I feel human again. But when I stand to leave, snow slams against the window in sheets.
“Damn,” I whisper. “It wasn’t this bad earlier.”
Tony checks out the door. “It’s coming down fast. You should stay until it slows.”
“I can’t impose like that.”
“You’d be safer staying here. And it is your house.”
I shake my head. “I’ll be fine.”
He arches a brow. “Holley. You’re exhausted. And this storm’s gonna get worse before it gets better.”
He’s right, but stubbornness is muscle memory for me.
“I just, I don’t want to be a burden. You’re on vacation after all.”
His voice drops low, firm without being harsh. “You could never be a burden.”
I swallow, emotion thickening my throat. I nod, barely.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Just for a little while.”
After dinner, he hands me a towel and points me toward the bathroom.
“You’ll feel better if you warm up properly,” he says. “Shower’s yours.”
The idea of hot water hitting my freezing skin is too tempting to refuse. I step inside, steam already fogging the small bathroom. When the water cascades over me, I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, I’m warm all the way through.
When I step out, wrapped in one of the oversized guest towels, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—cheeks flushed from heat, hair damp, eyes softer than they were this morning. I get a fresh set of sweats from my drawers.
I feel refreshed and look alive.
When I reenter the living room, Stud is on the couch, sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing as he tosses another log onto the fire. His eyes sweep over me, darkening just enough to send heat straight to my lungs.
“You look better,” he remarks.
I laugh a little. “I feel better.”
But I’m still tired. Bone-deep tired.
He notices immediately. “Feet hurt?”
“My whole body hurts,” I admit.
He pats the couch beside him. “Come here.”
I hesitate, not because I don’t want to—but because I want to too much.
He softens his tone. “Let me help, Holley.”
I cross the room. When I sit, he gently lifts one of my feet into his lap. I should protest. I should say he doesn’t need to do this.
Instead, my breath shudders out as his thumbs press into my arch.
“Oh… god,” I whisper.
He chuckles low, like he enjoys the sound. “That good?”
“Better than good.”
His hands are strong, sure, the kind of touch that knows how to take care, not take advantage. He works each knot, each tense line of muscle, with slow, deliberate pressure that sends warmth spiraling up my legs.
I sink deeper into the cushions, eyelids fluttering.
“You’re falling asleep,” he murmurs.
“No,” I try to argue, though it sounds like a dream talking. “I’m— I’m awake.”
He moves to the other foot, and that’s the last thing I remember.
I wake to the sound of my alarm. My alarm. I’m groggy.
My eyes snap open. I’m on my couch, wrapped in a soft blanket that smells like my home and something distinctly him. The fire is low embers now, glowing faintly. My phone is on the table beside me, exactly where he must’ve placed it.
Panic flares—I didn’t mean to fall asleep here.
I sit up quickly, heart racing.
My chest tightens. Not with fear. Not with embarrassment. With something warmer. Softer. More dangerous.
Yearning.
I curl my fingers around the blanket, lifting it to my chin, inhaling the scent that somehow already feels safe.
I haven’t felt safe in a long time.
Footsteps sound from the kitchen, slow and unhurried, like he isn’t surprised to find me still here.
“Morning, trouble,” he calls softly. “Sleep okay?”
My throat closes around the word I haven’t been able to say in months.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Because somehow in his warmth, in his quiet care, I finally, finally did.