Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
RIDGE
"More cakes, Widge!" Chellie holds up her empty plate, syrup smeared across her cheeks. Those big brown eyes, carbon copies of her mother's, make refusing impossible.
"Coming right up, princess." I pour more batter onto the griddle, watching as perfect circles form. Three days since they arrived, and I've made more pancakes than in the entire previous year.
I've never been a morning person, but I find myself waking before dawn now, eager to start coffee brewing, to hear the soft padding of tiny feet down the hallway, to see Stella's sleepy smile as she emerges from the guest room.
My entire existence has been upended, and somehow, I've never been happier.
"You don't have to spoil her," Stella says, entering the kitchen with damp hair from her shower, cheeks flushed from the heat. "She'd survive on something other than pancakes."
"But why should she have to?" I flip the pancakes with practiced ease. "Besides, I'm making up for lost time."
The words slip out before I can consider their weight. Lost time. Two years of Chellie's life I missed. Eight years of Stella's.
An awkward silence falls between us, broken only by Chellie banging her fork against the table.
"So what's on the agenda today?" I ask, sliding fresh pancakes onto Chellie's plate and cutting them into bite-sized pieces. "Getting tired of being cooped up in the cabin yet?"
"A little," Stella admits, accepting a mug of coffee. "But I'm not sure we should go into town. What if someone recognizes me and word gets back to Rick somehow?"
The protective urge flares in my chest. "Whisper Vale isn't exactly on social media. And half the town probably doesn't even remember you moved away."
She raises an eyebrow. "Small towns have long memories."
"True." I join them at the table with my own stack of pancakes. "But you can't hide forever. This is your home too."
Something softens in her expression. "It was. I'm not sure it still is."
"It could be again." I keep my voice casual, though my heart pounds at the implications. "If you wanted."
Chellie interrupts the moment by dropping her fork with a clatter. "Done! Outside?"
"It's snowing, baby," Stella smooths her daughter's wild curls. "Maybe another day."
"Snow!" Chellie's eyes widen with excitement rather than disappointment. "Play snow!"
"You've never seen snow?" I ask, surprised.
"We lived in San Diego," Stella explains. "She's seen it in books but never experienced it."
The thought of Chellie's first snow makes a decision for me. "We have to go outside then. No question."
"Ridge, we don't have proper clothes for this weather. Her coat is too light, and I didn't pack snow boots."
I stand, already formulating a plan. "Give me twenty minutes."
Before she can protest, I'm grabbing my keys and heading out. The drive to Jared's General Store takes ten minutes on snow-covered roads. I'm back in fifteen, laden with bags.
Stella meets me at the door, concern etched across her face. "Where did you run off to?"
"Shopping." I hold up the bags triumphantly. "Proper winter gear for my favorite girls."
The phrase slips out naturally, and I watch as Stella's eyes widen slightly. But she doesn't correct me. Doesn't remind me that they aren't mine to claim.
I unpack my bounty on the living room floor.
A pink snowsuit for Chellie, sized to grow with her through the winter.
Waterproof mittens. A hat with earflaps and a pompom on top.
Tiny snow boots with grippy soles. For Stella, a properly insulated coat, boots, gloves, and a knit beanie that brings out the gold flecks in her brown eyes.
"Ridge, this is too much." She fingers the price tag still attached to her coat. "I can't let you spend this kind of money on us."
"Already done." I snip the tags with scissors. "Consider it eight years of missed birthday presents."
She looks like she might argue further, but Chellie is already reaching for the pink snowsuit with grabby hands. "Pink! Mine!"
"Yours indeed, princess." I help her step into it, zipping her up until she resembles a puffy marshmallow with legs. She giggles, the sound like sunshine breaking through clouds.
Twenty minutes later, we're all bundled up and stepping onto the porch. The world is transformed into a white wonderland, fat flakes drifting lazily from a pearl-gray sky. The forest surrounding my property is hushed, tree boughs sagging under their white burden.
I glance at Chellie, eager to see her reaction to this magical first. Her eyes are saucers, mouth a perfect O of wonder. She reaches out one mittened hand, catching a snowflake and watching it melt.
"Cold!" she exclaims, looking up at me like I've just shown her the greatest miracle on earth.
"It is cold," I agree, kneeling to her level. "Want to try walking in it?"
She nods enthusiastically, and I guide her down the porch steps. The snow is only a few inches deep, perfect for a first experience. She takes one tentative step, then another, leaving tiny boot prints behind.
The look of pure joy that spreads across her face hits me square in the chest. This moment. This perfect crystalline moment with a child experiencing snow for the first time. I glance up at Stella, wanting to share it with her, and find her watching us with tears in her eyes.
"You okay?" I ask softly.
She nods, wiping quickly at her cheek. "Just... happy. It's been a while."
I understand. Happiness has been in short supply for her lately.
Chellie toddles forward with increasing confidence, then suddenly flops backward, landing with a soft thud in a snow drift. For a heart-stopping moment, I think she might cry. Instead, she waves her arms and legs.
"Look! I swimming!"
Stella laughs, the sound carrying across the still air. "That's called making a snow angel, baby." She demonstrates, dropping into a clean patch of snow and sweeping her limbs wide.
Not to be outdone, I fall backward into my own spot, the cold seeping through my coat as I carve out angel wings beside them. We must look ridiculous, three snow angels of decreasing size fanned out in my front yard.
I don't care. I'd happily look ridiculous every day if it meant hearing Stella laugh like that again.
We build a snowman next, rolling progressively larger balls until we have a respectable figure. I sacrifice my scarf for his neck, and Stella finds pinecones for eyes and a row of buttons. Chellie insists on adding twigs for arms herself, stabbing them in with fierce concentration.
"He needs a name," I say, standing back to admire our creation.
"Frosty!" Chellie declares, bouncing on her toes.
"Very original," Stella teases gently. "But perfect."
As we admire our handiwork, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I check it while Stella helps Chellie add more detail to Frosty's face.
It's a weather alert from the county emergency system: "Severe winter storm warning. Expected accumulation 30-36 inches beginning tomorrow evening. High winds, potential power outages. Travel not advised."
I glance at the horizon where darker clouds are gathering, still a day away but unmistakable. This isn't just a snowstorm coming; it's a potential blizzard.
"Everything okay?" Stella asks, noticing my expression.
"Just a weather alert," I say, not wanting to worry her yet. "We might want to head into town tomorrow for extra supplies. There's a big system moving in."
"How big?" Her eyes immediately fill with concern.
"Big enough that we should be prepared to be snowed in for a few days." I tuck the phone away, trying to look more casual than I feel. "Nothing we can't handle, but we'll need to stock up."
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of snowball fights and more snow angels. By the time the light begins to fade, we're all rosy-cheeked and exhausted. Chellie falls asleep almost immediately after dinner, worn out from her snowy adventure.
I build a fire while Stella tucks her daughter in, trying not to notice the way Stella's damp hair curls against her neck when she returns, or how the firelight brings out the gold in her brown eyes.
"So tell me more about this storm," she says, settling beside me on the couch, close enough that I can smell the vanilla of her shampoo.
I explain what meteorologists are predicting—three feet of snow, winds up to fifty miles per hour, potential power outages, impassable roads for days.
"We'll be completely cut off," she realizes, and I can't tell if the slight hitch in her voice is fear or something else.
"We'll be fine," I assure her. "The generator has enough fuel for a week. The pantry is stocked. The fireplace will keep us warm even if power fails." I hesitate, then add, "Unless you're worried about being stuck here. With me."
Her eyes meet mine, something unreadable in their depths. "Not worried. Just... aware."
The word choice sends heat coursing through me.
Aware. Yes, I'm increasingly, painfully aware of her too.
Of the curve of her neck when she bends to help Chellie.
Of her fingers wrapped around a coffee mug in the morning.
Of the sound of her shower running each night, water sluicing over skin I've only imagined.
"We should get some sleep," she says, breaking the charged silence. "If we're heading to town tomorrow, it'll be a busy day."
I nod, not trusting my voice. She rises gracefully, pausing at the hallway entrance.
"Ridge? Thank you for today. For making her first snow so special."
"Anytime," I manage, watching her disappear down the hall.
Sleep proves impossible. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, hyperaware of Stella down the hall. Is she asleep? Or is she lying awake too, thinking about tomorrow's storm? About being trapped here with me for days?
The thought of being truly snowed in with her makes my body respond immediately, blood rushing south as unbidden images flood my mind. Stella in the firelight. Stella with snowflakes melting in her hair. Stella in my bed, her body beneath mine.
I groan, throwing back the covers. This isn't helping.
My hand slides beneath the waistband of my boxers almost of its own accord. I'm already rock hard, aching with need. For three days I've been in a constant state of low-level arousal, trying to hide it, trying to be the gentleman she deserves.
I wrap my fingers around myself, hissing at the contact. I should stop. Should take a cold shower instead. But the image of Stella won't leave my mind.
In my fantasy, she can't sleep either. She slips from the guest room, padding silently down the hall to my door. She doesn't knock, just enters, moonlight silvering her skin as she approaches my bed.
"Ridge," she whispers in my imagination as my hand begins to move, "I can't stop thinking about you."
I stroke faster, picturing her climbing into my bed, her body warm and soft against mine. In my mind, she kisses me deeply as her hand replaces mine, her touch confident and sure.
The fantasy is so vivid I can almost feel her weight on the mattress, almost smell her vanilla scent. I imagine her straddling me, taking me inside her, her head thrown back in pleasure as she moves.
"Stella," I groan aloud, too far gone to care if the sound carries. My release crashes over me with surprising intensity, leaving me breathless and trembling.
Reality returns slowly. My room, empty except for me. Stella still down the hall in the guest room, unaware of my shameful fantasy.
I clean up, disgusted with myself. She came here for safety, for shelter. Not to be the object of my desperate fantasies.
But as I settle back into bed, the knowledge of tomorrow's storm makes my pulse quicken again. Days snowed in together. No escape. Nowhere to hide from this growing attraction.
I finally drift into restless sleep, dreaming of Stella coming to my door, of snow piling higher outside, trapping us together in this cabin until spring.